Even Closer
by Armless Penguin
Summary: Due to real life catching up with my coauthor, this fic has been placed into premature retirement.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE 

It was cold, as it ever was at night. Her breath was smoky and warm in the darkness, and she shivered, huddling beneath the heavy wool coat that was slung carelessly over her shoulders and burying her face deeply within the folds of the hand-sewn scarf strewn sloppily across her neck. Mrs. Weasley had made it for her—along with identical ones for Harry and Ron—and the garments were imbued with the feelings of love and safety that she so often felt when contemplating the older woman.

Hermione loosed another sigh, shifting herself to preserve the maximum amount of body heat, and peered across the raggedy and decaying, forlorn looking wooden table at Ron. He himself had his eyes downcast, seemingly studying one of the knots in the old wood, and she knew almost instinctually that his thoughts mirrored hers.

Reaching a small, fair hand across the breadth of the table, she grasped onto his and ran her thumb lovingly over his ring. Ron turned his wrist and enveloped her hand in his larger, coarser one, and her body filled with warmth.

"I know what you're thinking," she spoke softly. "I miss him too. We all do."

Ron shook his head side to side several times before looking up at her with wide, imploring eyes. "It just feels wrong, you know? Wrong that we're sitting here at the end of a celebration, and he's out Merlin–only–knows–where fighting for his life!" He was frustrated, and it was obvious, but at the vague flash of hurt in Hermione's eyes he mentally scolded himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized more calmly. "I worry about him."

"I do too, Ron. You know that. But Harry would want us to be happy. He always has, and that wouldn't have changed—no matter what he's experienced."

"If what she told us is true—"

"Ron!" she interrupted, "This is Harry we're talking about; you _know_ him! He's stronger than that!"

"I don't know if anyone's stronger than that," his tone was solemn, and they both shared a moment of reflection on all that they had lost. "And we know that he's been running around with her—"

"Don't you even start in on her!" Hermione's voice was vehement, and she pulled her hand roughly away from Ron's, standing. "You know what she's been through; if you have to feel anything for her it should be pity!"

Ron snorted and his eyebrows rose minutely. "I don't think she's the kind of woman who'd accept pity politely."

Hermione couldn't help herself as she was reminded of several instances where Ron had learned exactly the kind of woman she was, and a slight smile of bemusement curled at her chapped lips. "No. No, she isn't." A lull descended upon the conversation, and they both gazed around, taking in their surroundings as the silence stretched on comfortably for several moments. "What time is it?" she queried suddenly, glancing back at the tall redhead.

"Not sure," he said loosely, distractedly. He had been glancing around the sky, peering at the stars in the preceding minutes, and his eyes were still glued to the skyline. "Look," he said, pointing with his right index finger up at streak in the tapestry of space. "What's that?"

Her eyes trailed up his arm until she too was staring off into the world above. In the dead of the night a blurring light flashed through the heavens, streaming toward the earth below.

"Shooting star," she said.

"Oh…" Ron didn't appear to understand. She glanced at him.

"It's basically debris from space combusting as it enters the Earth's atmosphere…" As she began to ramble, Hermione noticed Ron's eyes cloud over, and she knew that he wasn't paying her one iota of attention; she snorted prissily. He noticed _that_ and turned to smile apologetically at her.

"Sorry."

The girl brushed him off with a curt nod, and silence settled around them once more.

"Do you think it will ever end?" he asked after almost ten minutes.

"Of course it will. I mean it has to—eventually."

"Eventually…" Ron trailed off, and they both understood the layers piled upon that simple word.

"Where _is_ he?" Hermione asked in frustration, swinging her body around to peer out into the darkness of the refugee camp.

The Second War, as the media had dubbed it, had been going on for almost three years by then, and, though they fought their hardest, the Order and their supporters, even those sent from other continents, were being slowly pushed backwards and out of Europe. More and more people were converting to Voldemort's cause out of nothing more than shear fear. They figured that they would stand a better chance with him than on the side that was almost consistently losing ground. Most of the old pureblooded families—with the exception of the Weasleys—held secure positions in the Dark Lord's inner circle, and that frightened many of the Muggle-borns. Popular theory was that the purebloods were more magically adept, and even though Dumbledore did his best to dispel that rumor, more and more witches and wizards were falling to the cause and Voldemort's seemingly endless power, and people were beginning to doubt the wizened old man.

It had hardly taken a year for the Dark Lord to overwhelm London, causing the Ministry to dissolve into shambles. The Order had been struggling from that point on to retain some sense of cohesiveness, but not many people were willing to submit to an authority that they had been led to believe for so long had worked against them. The damage that the Ministry and the media had done was seemingly irreparable. But that didn't mean that they wouldn't try. The members of the Order that weren't necessarily warriors and those who had worked within the Ministry before its fall were being sent out to provide public relations. As a result, they were seeing increased resistance in some areas and those efforts provided a sort of chain reaction of inspiration for others.

Throughout the War, many wizards, witches, and muggles alike had been driven from their lands and rendered homeless. Thus, hidden refugee facilities were set up by resistance groups and scattered across all of Europe. The Order was ever on the move, randomly migrating between facilities and never staying at any longer than a few months. Dumbledore set up control stations at each of their stops, leaving several members behind with whom he could be in almost constant communication. If anything were to happen, he would, if possible, be immediately notified. Still, these precautions did little to quell the fear of those refugees who deemed that the presence of such powerful and well-known wizards would surely bring Voldemort down on them all the sooner.

It was a constant propaganda battle.

The Dark Lord promised amnesty to those who would defect to his army. Rarely was this claim a fact, but the population was like a deer caught in a pair of headlights and would latch on to any chance they had. According to the Order's spies, the only reason some defectors weren't killed outright was that Voldemort saw some graphic use for them. It was enough to make the entire human race cringe. The demon was a master of manipulation.

The two young wizards, newly graduated, were waiting anxiously for Dumbledore. He was late, and Hermione was beginning to worry.

"He's never late," she murmured nervously.

Ron shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about Dumbledore."

She turned to regard her long-time friend. "Yet you constantly obsess over Harry."

"He's like my brother!" Ron protested and turned away from her, muttering, "You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I? He's my friend too, Ron. But I believe in him. So does everyone here and everyone in the world. We _rely_ on him."

He blinked at her and then suddenly cast his eyes down. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to _be_ him?"

"Ron—" Hermione began warningly but was interrupted.

"No—hear me out; I've been thinking about this ever since…ever since he disappeared." He raised his eyes to hers, and they shined with unshed tears, something rarely seen in a man his age. "I mean—he's got all of this responsibility heaped onto his shoulders. Everyone expects him to be some kind of super–wizard, to be the one who's going to save us all, even Dumbledore! Can you imagine how that must feel? _I_ certainly can't." He shook his head briefly. "It would be enough to drive a lesser man insane."

As she listened to him, Hermione realized exactly how true his words rang. Harry had always been one to hide and shy away from his fame. He wasn't like others who would have glorified themselves in it and lived for it; he simply preferred to be left alone to live his life, to live as Harry Potter and no one else. Unfortunately, that wasn't always possible for the young Boy-Who-Lived.

"Right you are, Mr. Weasley," a voice rang out over the still night air, instantly recognizable to the two wizards who swung abruptly toward it.

"Professor!" Hermione called excitedly, relieved.

Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles glinted in the glare of the moon as he approached his former students. "In order to find Harry, we are going to have to understand him. And I do believe that young Mr. Weasley is on the right track." The old man smiled and his eyes twinkled. "But that is not why I called you here tonight."

"Then why?" Ron asked, and Dumbledore waved his hand in response.

"As of right now, I am putting that business on hold."

Hermione grew serious and more than slightly suspicious. "Why?" she echoed Ron's question.

Once more his eyes twinkled in that infuriating manner. "What other reason can you think of?" His smile was easy and joyous. "The baby is coming."

**END PROLOGUE**

**Armless Author's Note:** Just for information, it might be necessary to note that this story is, in fact, written by _two_ people: myself, Armless Penguin, and my friend Legend (http/ It flows in a rather simplistic way: I wrote the Prologue, he the first chapter, I the second, and so on and so forth? Get it? Good, , then I hope you can enjoy the story as much as we have.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Doors to Hell

One year prior

The night extended infinitely away, leaving a certain Harry Potter alone beneath the brilliant eternity of the stars and moon. His eyes, normally so vibrant with their emerald glory now bore a dull lifeless glaze as they swiveled purposefully over the night sky. It was almost with certain desperation that he sought out a solitary pinnacle of light amongst the blur of uncountable billions ascending the heavens. He had become almost accustomed to the night sky, familiarizing himself with it most nights, but it was never with such fervor that he searched the stars. When his eyes finally met with the one particular star, its light cast over him a calming presence and his eyes closed, leaving only the most minute opening, blurring out all else but that one light. Harry wanted his time alone with him, with the Dog Star; Sirius, and the presence that bore the same name.

His chin fell to his breast, and unbidden tears from beneath his closed eyes trailed gracefully down his cheekbone and along his jaw, finally descending to the ground below.

"I miss you."

-

Albus Dumbledore's eyes closed with exhaustion, his head held up with great effort between his pale, bony fingers. Despite his ever-present aura of power, he appeared to have aged terribly in the two short years since the Second War, as it was unofficially dubbed by the media, had cast its evil over all. This latest plan, it was desperate, no other word could possibly be used to describe it and still give full justice. He shook his head, berating himself for the sheer stupidity it required. But the times had become worse, and he had found himself left with only a depressingly shortening list of options at the end of every day.

"May all possible luck fall upon us tonight." He whispered, his cracked lips barely parting and his wrinkled features sinking within themselves as his face broke down in exhaustion once more. His once twinkling eyes now sunk within his skull, their pale, watery blue irises gazing into empty space. This option, how could he have chosen it? How could he have forced it upon someone he held so dear? There was no-one better for the situation; of course there was no one else. But there were drawbacks. There always were these days, and there was very little to ever hope for. Deception was impossible, Voldemort would sense his presence; there was no question, their connection was far too strong for otherwise. So a covert operation was out, but there still may be a glimmer at the end of the night. Dumbledore just hoped that Voldemort's tendency to seek knowledge before destruction could work to their advantage. It was too dangerous to hope though; with the monumental chances of failure rising against them, it could prove far more fatal for them to hope.

Dumbledore cast his mind into another inner argument. Voldemort could hardly believe such a change in heart so suddenly, Dumbledore understood that. The mere ideal of him believing and accepting Harry was preposterous. But maybe that impossibility would prove to their advantage. Because both Harry and Voldemort knew the other wasn't stupid enough to attempt such a pitiful trick, it would be infinitely more dangerous for Harry to use such a plan against Voldemort. But maybe, Dumbledore thought, it was as equally unexpected, possibly even the safest choice. Well, as safe as you can be in the lap of the Dark Lord. Even failing that, Voldemort may even choose to let the charade continue just to see what happens, or even just to keep his greatest threat as close as possible. Harry's Occlumency lessons would have to finally prove their use here. But there was no other choice. For Harry Potter to get close enough to Voldemort in order to kill him, he would have to join him.

"Merlin smile on Harry Potter."

-

Harry's gaze fell from the sky, turning down to the fortress before him. He sat, curled into a ball, his glasses sliding slowly down his nose due to the slick, nervous perspiration pooling there. The moon was nearly at its zenith. Voldemort must of course already be aware of his presence, but he would undoubtedly wait for Harry to approach him. He could certainly feel the immense chill emanating from the dark fortress of Azkaban, the Dark Lord within now reunited with his captured followers. This desperate move by Dumbledore certainly told Harry just how far the War had preceded, and what lengths must be met to end it. His eyes closed briefly against the biting cold as he huddled closer into himself, shielding himself from the first few flakes of snow that descended from above, he found his mind wandering the night, to a day only a week prior that had found Harry Potter and Dumbledore in the same room, an event that was such a rarity these days. It was Dumbledore that had informed him of his mission, and the utter importance surrounding it. This could very well be the move that ended the war, for good or evil he could not say. But it was the end, that Dumbledore had stressed, that proved the greatest importance.

"Harry, I trust you tonight as I have never before." Dumbledore began. "Tonight, I will ask you to turn against everything you believe and have fought for." His tone implied to Harry that what was to be said between them now, would quite possibly change the entire drift of the War. "Tonight, I will ask of you one final task, and after that, I shall never ask anything of you ever again. Tonight though, I ask of you the greatest choice you can give. Harry, tonight I am asking you to willingly betray me."

"What!" Harry was definitely more confused than angry. He, of course, understood the implications of what Dumbledore asked of him, but it still didn't manage to sink in yet, and he had every rite to demand further information before taking on such a decision. Dumbledore paused for a while, apparently stewing over his thoughts. When he did speak, it was not to elaborate on his previous statement.

"An end, Harry, is what we seek. We are too weary. We are too weak to continue." Dumbledore's voice seemed aged and cracked. His words seemed to strike Harry. Of course, thanks to what remained of the media, it was a well circulated fact that the War was not fairing well, and Voldemort's grasp on Britain ever-tightened. But it was the utter finality of hearing Dumbledore speak it that hurt Harry most.

"With each close of a sunset, we see Lord Voldemort's power heighten. The people, Harry, they want an end. They need an end to this War. Every single day, they are seeing hope die, along with countless people they held dear. We may not be able to give them a victory, Harry," Dumbledore's eyes rose to meet his own, his voice wobbled dangerously. He seemed to stare at Harry for an age, attempting to process a tidal wave of emotion into that one look. "But we can give them an end."

Harry felt his eyes tingle as he heard what had to be the saddest statement he had ever heard. But what made it infinitely worse was that he knew it what was said to be true. It hurt. It ached so bad that he had to desperately fight not to collapse to the ground in sobs as a world of trust, hope and friends died forever to be replaced by a realm of fear. Instead, he raised his chin and set his jaw, facing Dumbledore.

"How must I betray you?" He asked coldly. It seemed like the strangest thing he had ever said, and his voice sounded completely alien to his own ears.

"I must ask you," Dumbledore's voice sounded flat, and lifeless. "To join Lord Voldemort, and do so willingly and whole-heartedly...and with every intention in aiding him in this war. Until the opportune moment, that is."

The appearance of disgust on Harry's face demanded no further need for elaboration.

"You know as well as I that Lord Voldemort would completely see through any attempts at deceit before him. It would be impossible to get anyone close enough to him to cause any harm without his knowing and allowing." Dumbledore's face slackened as he allowed the weight upon him to rest for a while, his wrinkles deepened and he looked so much older than what he had five minutes ago. "And as you well remember from the prophecy concerning yourself and he, it can only be you who kills Lord Voldemort." He turned his eyes up at Harry's, staring imploringly. "Or he you."

"We cannot allow Lord Voldemort to know your planned deeds, he will expect them at first, of course, and so to earn his trust…you must prove him wrong." It finally struck Harry what Dumbledore was hinting at. His eyes widened, and Dumbledore, noting the change in Harry, only nodded his head sadly. "You must become a Death Eater. And if the Dark Lord demands you to hunt and kill one of us, one of the Order, you must do it. The sacrifice of the entire Order would still prove worthy if it would bring the downfall of Voldemort."

Harry seemed so shocked that all emotions within him seemed to have shriveled away, leaving a blackened, wrinkled shadow of what once was; he stood before Dumbledore an empty shell, devoid of all hope and humanity. His dry lips slowly parted for him to speak, but before he could he was interrupted once again by Dumbledore, whose voice seemed to have taken on a note of urgency.

"No one else, Harry, do I trust as much as you. No one else do I believe stands the merest chance of doing this. Yes, it is a shadow off impossible, and very likely to fail in the first five minutes of playing out. But it is all we have left." His shoulders fell, and he collapsed into a chair. He finally looked, to Harry, like the old man that he should have been years prior, but he had always managed to carry that sense of pure and unquestionable power that now only lingered as a dull shadow. "Harry, to defeat the enemy, you must become him."

Then followed a silence; utter quiet as each wizard watched the other.

Harry's dead face seemed to waver, but he hastily amended that; he was determined not to allow any emotion to pass over his features. Now that all other hope left them with this one singular choice, he decided that emotions were now pointless, and only served as obstructions to the greater plan. The silence seemed to serve as a pact between the two, an agreement that they would not see the people suffer for any longer in anticipation of death. Instead, they would either be free of it forever, or face it to a grisly end. The same fate, Harry knew would meet him eventually.

Dumbledore still managed to smile at him grimly.

"There is always that chance though, that that hope that proved greatest when your parents died for you, Harry, will shine again. It was quite possibly the greatest tragedy of an age, and in the same stroke, our greatest victory. A tragedy is guaranteed for us; that is of course unquestionable. This is war, after all. But let us hope that there is a victory in there somewhere, no matter how obscure and impossible." He forced his lips to grin feebly, his wrinkles parting as the edges of his mouth trembled, struggling to hold the smile. Harry hadn't moved at all, not the slightest twitch.

"We can give them an end." Harry agreed sadly with a note of finality, and then left the room, its single occupant and his innocence behind.

-

A piercing howl shattered the night, and Harry's eyes snapped open. His fist was already balled around his wand, his teeth chattering, though from frost or fright he was not sure. His eyes turned to the sky, and he noted that the moon now hung directly above, at its highest point. It now begins.

Abandoning all attempts to remain concealed to whomever may be looking; Harry rose to his feet and began to slowly make his way, stumbling and half-living, towards the Dark Fortress of Azkaban. The screams from behind the walls intensified, and the wavering glow of spell-fire cast itself over the ground from what few windows there were. It was now obvious to Harry that someone within the prison was being tortured at the end of Voldemort and his Death Eaters' wands, for a reason, or merely for their sick enjoyment, or even to draw Harry out, he did not know. With surprise he realized that only a few years earlier he would have thrown himself into the building five minutes from when the screaming had started, surprised and alarmed at how much he and his beliefs had changed in so short a time. For it was doing just that, he noted with disgust, that had gotten Sirius killed. His heroism. His fault. He preferred the new Harry. In fact, the old Harry disgusted the new one; who wouldn't despise that who brought the death of your dearest companion?

With each waning step towards the prison, the night grew colder, its lethal grip tightening on Harry's chest like a vice. His legs grew leaden, and it became an effort just to step only a few paces. Shortly, he found himself having difficulty breathing, as if there was a hand constraining his lungs, restricting the amount of air he could breathe in. Despite the crushing cold, sweat began to trickle down his face, the salt stinging his eyes. His breath came out in wisps of steam, erupting outwards in a powerful jet before lingering, then fading away into the chilling air. Harry's mind wandered frantically. Could the Dark Lord's power have grown so, that his very presence caused a physical effect on those in his vicinity? Terror struck his heart, and his breath came in short, feverish takes as he collapsed to his knees. Could he go through with this? Could he actively betray everyone he cared for? Not only Dumbledore, but Ron and Hermione? Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? Remus, Hagrid, Fred, George, Ginny, and yes; even Percy? And many, many more. A thunderous thought struck him that caused him to shiver un-voluntarily. He was doing this for all of them, everyone he had ever cared for; for all of their good. But what he was doing for them may result in Harry having to hurt those he loved. Or kill them. He yelped audibly as he actually considered for the first time with any thought what Dumbledore had been talking about.

_I"You must become a Death Eater. And if the Dark Lord demands you to hunt and kill one of us, one of the Order, you must do it. The sacrifice of the entire Order would still prove worthy if it would bring the downfall of Voldemort."/I_

An image broke into his thoughts: Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore, and everyone else, kneeling before Voldemort as he turned his wand upon them, and Harry standing back in the shadows, allowing it all, even aiding Voldemort.

"Oh my god…" He whispered, with the full weight of the choice he had already made coming down upon him.

"I could end up saving them, only to kill them!" He cried incredulously to no one in particular. "How can I continue with this, knowing what I may do?" His eyes turned up to the fortress, which now lay only a few hundred yards away. The screams now rang clearly through the night, and he could now make out the sounds of insane laughter mingling with them. Harry's stomach lurched, and he found himself hating everything about this island and everyone who stood upon it. Everyone.

"It's too late. Far too late now. I've made the choice, now I have to follow through with it, and accept my punishment for what I've done." He shook his head at the ground, "But should everyone else pay for my choice, as well?" His fist came crashing down, burying itself in the snow and loose earth, his teeth clenched in aggravation. Slowly, after allowing his emotions to fade, he picked himself up, brushed the snow from his knees and managed to shake off the feeling of impending dread, and once again, set off for the final stretch towards Azkaban, and whoever lay within.

Harry had never actually seen Azkaban before, even in books and pictures, and it was with a kind of confused fear that he noticed that it almost appeared like a darker, smaller Hogwarts. Rising up into the sky, dwarfing the island itself somehow, taking up the entire island save for the coast. It was crowned by many towers and turrets, extending more up than outwards, but totally devoid of anything that was even near to the cheery, playful atmosphere of Hogwarts. Instead, it positively reeked of foreboding evil. And above it all, placed on the side of a single, massive tower dead in the center of the fortress, and rising above all others, there rested a gigantic clock, with the hour hand alone more than ten times the length of Harry. Harry thought with sick amusement that if there were ever a place that Voldemort could call home: here it was. Harry made his way to the monstrous, oaken door at the front, his eyes casting over the intricately carved behemoth. He saw horrible images, disturbingly detailed images of witches and wizards riddled with ailments, being torn apart by what looked like demons, dark little creatures with large, bulging eyes and bat-like wings and claws and teeth like razors, laughing sadistically as they tore pieces of flesh from the people. The people screamed, their faces thin, gaunt and distorted, eyes sunken, mouths agape and clothes in tatters, staring imploringly at Harry with their hands extended towards him, trying to reach him through the oaken prison that separated them. He realized with sick fear that they weren't reaching for him for aid; to pull their selves out, but in complete opposite and drag him in to join them in their torture. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to be a prisoner being brought to this place, knowing that you would never be leaving, and to meet with these faces before being dragged within to face whatever beyond. The faces on the door would have their way, no one could ever leave.

His eyes fell upon words carved into the wood:

_Welcome, stranger, step inside,_

_To where all evil comes to hide,_

_Know that this shall be your last sight,_

_Of grass and sky, and of moon and night,_

_For once ye enter, there is no home,_

_Except these walls to be your tomb,_

_Here within where naught shall dwell,_

_But evil and your own, dark hell._

He shivered as the dark words struck home, leaving him feeling haunted by those eyes. Imploring, seeking him out with those sightless pupils, reaching for him with long, clammy fingers to snatch him away and pull him towards the demons to share their fate. The screaming of people beyond those doors seemed to Harry as if they were coming from the images themselves. Torturous, horrible, retching roars of pain. Harry so wanted to shut his ears to them, and his eyes from the images, but they seemed to be drawing him to them, almost hypnotic. Their sightless eyes staring and their arms stretching out. Reaching. Always reaching for him.

With enormous effort, he tore his eyes from the door, his feverish symptoms returning; sweat breaking out over his forehead, his damp hair falling in jet black streaks down his pale face. The door seemed to affect him deeply. He took a while to recover, then forcing himself to turn back to the door in search of a handle. He realized with horror that there was none. He was staring at nothing better than another wall in the side of the fortress, albeit that it was shaped, looked, and made like a door. Remembering how many doors at Hogwarts required certain tasks to open some doors, he began searching the lengths of the door for anything that could be manipulated, changed or moved. The door rose to at least five times Harry's height, the devilish images riddling every last inch of the wood, except where the words lay. Harry also noticed that the door bore no signs of hinges or door knocker. His searches gave nothing but fruitlessness; so-much-so that Harry wasn't so sure that even if the door could be opened. I_This is after all, the most secure prison in the world_/I he thought with distaste. I_Of course it wouldn't just be a simple act that a teenager could easily accomplish./I_ His eyes fell, once again on those of the tortured humans. And again, he felt that hypnotic pull on him. In the eerie pale-blue light of the moon, their visages seemed infinitely more real and equally as desperate for his company. Slowly, achingly, Harry raised his arm, his fingers stretching to reach those outstretched by the closest witch, a woman who had already had half of her head torn off by a particularly evil looking demon who had pulled back her head to expose her neck, his fangs bared, ready to delve in and taste her sweet jugular, and the life-juice within; her mouth frozen in an eternal scream. His fingertips reached for her, coming within centimeters of the wooden door. He seemed to be in a trance, his face blank, eyes unblinking.

A scream tore itself from Harry's lips, and he instantly snapped out of the trance, becoming aware of himself once again. Aware of himself, and the arm reaching out from the wood, grasped firmly and unmercifully around his wrist. Harry's cries were lost among those emanating from the fortress, even to his own ears they sounded far off, distant. The arm appeared to be not only coming from the door, it seemed to be made of the same material and, to Harry's rising alarm, to actually be a part of the door, emerging where the witch's arm had last been, almost an extension between the world within the door and out. Harry's heart hammered and his panic rising as he felt the arm beginning to pull on him, retreating back into the depths of the door. He struggled against it, pulling back and for a while it appeared to be a stalemate, neither arm budging to or from the door. But then, once again, Harry felt the arm winning, its nails digging into his flesh, puncturing the skin and drawing blood to slide gracefully down his pale skin to pool on the ground below. The arm began pulling him with a greater urgency. He struggled further, but to no purpose, he had already lost. Sensing that however hard he struggled, the arm would always beat him, Harry just gave in, letting his body go slack and allowing no resistance. His fingertips met with the polished wood first, and he was startled at first at how cold it felt, but that quickly slipped his mind when he realized that his fingers was sinking into the wood, as if it were nothing more solid than water.

"Oh!" He yelped, his eyes widening. "Oh, that is not good." The wooden surface seemed to have become some kind of auburn liquid, exactly the same to the wood in colour and texture. In fact, Harry began to even wonder if it had ever been wood, and if he had found it's decidedly…un-door-like attributes had he just touched it earlier. He gulped audibly, his dry throat making a pitiful attempt to lubricate itself, when he had lost all capabilities to produce saliva several minutes ago. His arm was now into the door up to his elbow, and he found himself attempting to move his fingers around inside, seeking out if there was anything on the other side, but feeling nothing; empty space nor substance. The pace of his being sucked into the door quickened, and in a matter of seconds Harry found his shoulder beginning to be lost to the depths.

"Well…" He groaned, seeing no further point in attempting to delay the inevitable. "Knock-knock." He muttered with a quick sigh, and then pushed his head forwards and lost all knowledge of his senses.

Harry emerged from the other side, and with a final, laboured step, he forced his way out of the solid oak door. Solid being the correct word, as Harry discovered when he took a single, sweeping glance around at his surroundings, and spun around instantly, frantically pressing his palms against the door to find his way back out. Solid. He now realized why it was so simple to get into the fortress; the Ministry wasn't worried about people getting into the prison at all, it was to stop them from getting out that they had laid all the _real _security against. _Idiot, Harry! Idiot!_ thought to himself, but then realized that he had always planned to enter the prison, and his plans had never involved anything about getting out. With no other choice of direction, Harry turned back to face his next path.

It was massive, huge. Larger maybe than three or four Great Halls, all dimly lit by sconces in the wall, emblazoned with green flames. As such, it gave the entire room, if you could call it that and give it justice to its pure enormity, an eerie emerald glow. This was all too fitting indeed for the occupants standing there, deathly silent and standing in an elongated horseshoe formation, allowing him passage to the very end of the room. They were watching him, clearly already expecting and awaiting his arrival. The disturbingly silent forms of whom they had been torturing now lying before them, unmoving. Harry began to take slow, deliberate steps forwards. Sweat broke out anew on his forehead, though now he knew undoubtedly that it was due to fear. His footsteps echoed around the walls, and the sounds of his robes swishing with his legs' movements were sickeningly loud. But what he was sure that no one in the room could possibly miss was the tumultuous roar of his heartbeat, screaming in his ears. There came a reverberating chime, as the monstrous clock far, far above gave its first toll of midnight.

Doom!

Harry's scar began to prickle. And with each step he took towards the heavily robed Death Eaters his scar seemed to heat up. He could now begin to make out the individual eye slits in each Death Eater's mask. His heartbeat rose steadily. Again; the clock chimed.

Doom!

Harry could not make out the form of Voldemort among any of his Death Eaters. But it would have been absolutely, disgustingly foolish to extract any relief from that. Voldemort was there, and Harry would have much preferred to know the whereabouts of his enemy before walking into his lap.

Doom!

Not a sound came from any of the Death Eaters; they just continued to watch him in complete silence, the only sound being that of his footsteps, and the rhythmic chimes of the clock.

Doom!

Harry began to feel immensely uncomfortable under the many, many stares of the Death Eaters. And to avoid eye-contact with as many as he could, he averted his eyes straight ahead, not allowing them the pleasure of knowing his fear. He noted, with quiet terror that their numbers seemed to have swollen manifold since his last encounter with them. _That would be thanks to his reign spreading, and people beginning to believe it safer to be at the right hand of the Devil_, Harry thought. _Than in His path_.

Doom!

Some of the Death Eaters stood facing him, obviously intensely uncomfortable with his presence. Others seemed to be rooted to the spot by their fears. Still more seemed completely bored by the experience. Even more seemed to be aching, positively trembling with hatred of Harry, and loathing having to stand still while their arch-nemesis walked past unprotected for once, wanting no less than to pull away from the group and attack the boy with all curses known to Wizard-kind. But it was the last category, the one containing only three or four people, that terrified Harry the most. They stared back at him with glee, utter, absolute jubilation at finally having Harry Potter; The Boy-Who-Lived in their midst, and picturing with great pleasure what they could do him in just a few short moments.

Doom!

Harry came to a stop at the very end of the room, now facing a line of Death Eaters who stood no further than ten or twenty paces ahead of him. He returned their stares, mainly concentrating his attention on one Death Eater who stood directly opposite him. He could see the eyes of a woman behind the eye slits, startlingly youthful, vibrant blue eyes met with his. He knew the person behind that mask couldn't be much older than he. The eyes turned up at the corners, smiling at him with an evil grin he could still make out just by looking at her eyes.

Doom!

The woman Death Eater's eyes reverted from his, rising up and gazing over his shoulder with great interest. Suspecting the worst, He turned around, discovering that the Death Eaters had closed the gap between them and formed a perfect circle, capturing him at one end, and as much as he hated to leave his back vulnerable to the Death Eaters now behind him, due to his position his back would always be facing a Death Eater. He had no choice but to grip his wand even tighter and face each and every Death Eater in turn, slowly turning round in a circle so as not to allow any one Death Eater too long a chance to send a curse his way.

Doom!

For the first time, Harry saw movement among the Death Eaters, and he turned his gaze to its source. He managed to catch one of the Death Eaters remove their mask with a single, fluid movement. And the face revealed burned through him, scorned him with pure and un-definable hatred. Bellatrix Lestrange. Sirius' murderer. Harry felt a wave of rage flow over him, and he barely managed to keep his face straight and stop himself from stumbling at the very sight of her. _She_, Harry thought. _She will be the first to die. Even before Voldemort, she will die. _

Doom!

Like a ripple over the line of Death Eaters, each of them in turn took the example from Lestrange and removed their own masks, revealing their faces to Harry as a sign of their confidence; they feared him little and so found no threat in exposing their faces to him. Even those who actually did removed their masks if only out of pure fear of being singled out from the crowd. Harry knew very little of the faces in the crowd of people, their ranks having risen so much, but there were still those he recognized. Lucius Malfoy seemed the most recognizable besides Bellatrix, sneering at him with those cold gray eyes exactly the same as his son's. And Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Jugson, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan, Dolohov, Rookwood and Mulciber. All of them aged slightly, but their dislike for Harry no less evident on their faces.

Doom!

Then as one, every single Death Eater's eyes turned to the very center of the circle, quite a number of paces behind Harry, and Harry noted that in each Death Eater's eyes, the barest hint of fear was visible. Harry froze; his nape prickling and the intense sensation of a sheet of cold rushing down his body. He shivered. Very slowly, Harry turned to face the man who had presently appeared in the middle of the circle with a swish of his cloak. The man stood tall, his face flat, his nostrils and eyes mere slits and his skin sickeningly pale. But what burned through Harry most were those snake-like, ruby slit-pupils.

Doom!

"Harry Potter. I cannot possibly express to you how grateful I am of your presence." The man's voice was sickly sweet, high and exceedingly cold, lathered with an oily slickness. The man's arm rose from beneath his robes, his wand now pointed directly at Harry's heart.

"Welcome."

_Doom!_


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO 

"_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."_ - Friedrich Nietzsche

Harry felt ill; his entire body was covered with a slick sheen of perspiration, and he veritably shook in his boots. Feeling his heart literally freeze while his blood burned painfully through his veins, his eyes locked onto the wand pointed threateningly at his chest. Voldemort's smirk was nothing short of malicious.

"I cannot tell you how surprised I was to hear of your arrival, Harry." The demon's blood red eyes glinted in an insane glee. "Surely an ingenious young wizard like yourself would have more sense than to step into the very lair of his foe?" Knowing the question was rhetorical and not sure if he would have been able to answer regardless, Harry didn't respond, instead opting to reflexively gulp. Voldemort's wand flicked carelessly, still aimed casually at the boy's heart. "Now you'll die. However, I wish to know something first." Voldemort's eyes studied his adversary's face. "Why are you here?"

Harry's reply came quickly and through parched lips, his mouth in a thin line. "I wish to join you."

Several Death Eaters snickered.

Voldemort waited a moment for the deafening quiet to once more settle as a blanket across the room, and then said, "Oh? Is that so? And why, pray tell, would you want to join me?" Their eyes met and the Dark Lord's bored into Harry's soul; the young wizard was once more grateful that he had successfully learned Occlumency. "I killed your parents, boy." The proclamation was made calmly; the Dark Lord's voice was as a velvet sheet, smooth and flat.

Harry steeled his tongue in disgust at what he was about to say, but he was already in the man's presence and could not afford to back out: "They deserved to die."

Now Voldemort was no fool; he had killed and conquered more people than he could even care to keep track of. He was currently in control of most of Europe, and through the powers of the Dark Arts he had managed to say alive longer than he really should have, essentially becoming immortal. Suffice it to say that he was wise: wiser, perhaps, than Dumbledore. He could certainly rival the man, but wisdom is a relative thing. Whereas Dumbledore's strength was borne in the powers of goodness and light, the Dark Lord's dwelt in the bony grasp of evil and darkness.

And Voldemort was the epitome of darkness.

Thus, he was momentarily amused at the boy's proclamation: his aura positively shown with light. Still, as he stared and studied it more closely he could begin to make out a sort of wearing about the edges; they appeared ragged and frilled, and shadows seemed to lurk just out of his vision, eager to dance in a massacre of innocence.

His mouth quirked into an expression of crazed excitement; perhaps there was more to this situation than met his blood-like eyes.

Harry, for his part, was becoming increasingly unnerved. The Dark Lord's eyes were burning through him like an acid on butter, and the Death Eaters' silent attentiveness was not at all improving the situation. His facial muscles strained to the point of aching as he struggled to keep his expression neutral and his legs from shaking; showing any weakness at all would be an almost certain death sentence.

And Harry didn't especially care to die.

At least not before he had completed his objective.

Finally, the awkward pause ended, and the Dark Lord spoke: "Is that so?" The wand never left Harry's heart.

"It is," Harry's voice was deceptively strong as the words practically quivered from his mouth.

"And what led you to this conclusion?"

Harry decided that he hated Voldemort's voice and it's snake-like quality; his tongue flicked out and seemed to slither as the syllables caressed his lips in an almost intimate fashion, and it made the younger wizard shiver.

The boy twisted his face into an expression of bitter disgust.

"I've followed that muggle-loving fool for too long. He twists everything and tells nothing; while I was allied with him, while I was in his 'school,' he kept things from me: my past, my future, my _power_." He spoke the words darkly, ruthlessly, and with forced honesty. But as they flowed from his mouth with an unpracticed ease, he considered: his points _were_ true. Dumbledore had been known to be less than truthful with him, and he had long since grown used to that fact. But wasn't _he_ supposed to be the wizarding world's savoir? Didn't _he_ deserve honesty? _He_ was the most important thing they had, after all! _He_ was their weapon, their _only_ weapon! "I am tired of it." The proclamation was made in a whispered breath, and it bore a weight no one else could fathom.

The snake-like visage studied him for a moment longer; and even with his Occlumency shields at full strength, Harry's spine produced the cool-ice feeling of being violated.

When Voldemort spoke, his voice was silky: "Let us say, for a moment, that I believe you: what would you do then?"

"Anything that you ask."

Harry cringed.

The wand lowered.

The Death Eaters blinked.

"Very well then," the Dark Lord said. "Take him away."

----

It hurt.

It hurt a _lot_.

The body flamed in agony; every nerve ending was alive with tension. Convulsing in its bonds, its mouth unconsciously foamed as it unleashed a feral, animalistic scream. Heat, brimstone, and terror pumped through its veins, setting its blood aflame. Sweat-glistened and blood-matted hair hung in front of its eyes, dripping and pooling the bitter, sticky residues at its feet. The air tasted metallic and chalky, even with the open, barred window letting the bitingly cold wind in to play about the room.

Shadows and haunts danced across the walls, demons encroaching and perversely enjoying the suffering of the body. They taunted and made fun, jeering and throwing ruthless insults toward the delirious and broken countenance.

It was chained against one of the stone walls of Azkaban prison. The wall was grimy and dirty, putrid with the sweat and blood of centuries, and it reeked of the dull scent of slowly growing insanity and inevitable death. There was no happiness in this place; there was nothing but pain. All other emotions and feelings had been sucked out by the vampiric likenesses of the Dementors. But by then, the corpse was too far gone to much care.

The hands were strung up behind it, pulled outward as far as could be done without dislocating the shoulders—the Death Eaters who had thrown it into the bonds had pulled until it began to scream—and they burned endlessly. The feet dangled limply, brushing against the cool stone of the floor occasionally; they were by then scarred and calloused from the treatment received when their owner was repeatedly placed under the Cruciatus and other torture-inducing curses.

The body itself was ragged; the only clothes that it wore were jaggedly torn and hung from the frame as cloths, barely covering anything and certainly not keeping the frigid night air from embracing it. It was torn; blood seeped from hundreds of tiny cuts and tens of larger, more fiery and dangerous, wounds. Bruised and beaten, it barely clung on to the last vestiges of its life, but no matter how much it begged, its captors would not let it die.

They refused to; it was an order.

And they knew what would happen if they disobeyed direct orders.

Every life-threatening laceration was quickly healed with a well-placed spell, and every violent mental probe was delayed until the subject had ample time to put its thoughts back in order.

The mind, after all, was as important as the body.

However, these people were professionals; no matter how many times the wounds healed themselves and the skin crawled back together and mended expertly, the pain remained.

The excruciating, horrific, primitive, and intoxicating fire never burnt out.

Still, somewhere buried deep within the recesses of a shattered psyche, the essence of Harry survived. He could not comprehend much, such was the numbing quality of the torture; thus, he didn't not know how much time had passed nor what the Dark Lord had planned for him.

Neither seemed to overly matter.

He was possessed by an instinctual spirit, something that the Death Eaters seemed to be forcing out. It lashed outward whenever the sessions began, the intervals of which he could also not comprehend; but the animal in him was competent enough to realize that they would do so whenever one of the dark-robed figures entered the chamber.

Abruptly, there was a creaking sound, as if of twisting metal, and the door to the small room swung wide open. Standing and smiling insanely in the doorway was a Death Eater.

And on it went.

----

The Dark Lord Voldemort was by mere being not a very a trusting individual. He had hundreds, if not thousands, of followers, but there were only a few whose loyalty was unquestioning and unending. The others, they were disposable soldiers whom he would not trust any further than he could curse them, which was, coincidentally, fairly far.

That small, elite group of Death Eaters that he deemed worthy was his 'inner circle,' his own personal 'Order.' They respected him as no others possibly could. He was a god to them, and the knowledge that they saw him as he should be seen was the only thing that had kept some of them alive as long as they had been. It was well known that his toleration of disloyalty among his followers was less than nothing, and that he would murder if he even had the slightest suspicion of betrayal. Unfortunately, there were some of his Death Eaters that sought to take advantage of this by attacking and blaming their fellows in order to further their own egos. They were usually surprised, however, that his tolerance for _this _betrayal—for that is truly what it was—was almost equally as low.

One of the most targeted of these accused individuals was Severus Snape, whom most seemed to believe was betraying the Dark Lord right under his nose. Bemused at first, he had eventually grown so tired of hearing this complaint, that he had begun violently murdering whomever it was that had brought it up that day. They were idiots anyway, as if anyone could hide such a large secret from someone as powerful as himself. Severus's work as a double agent was well known to him, just not in the sense that some seemed to expect. But that did not matter.

Either way, there were only a few of his followers that he had confidence enough in, that were needed enough, or that were just plain stupid enough to be allowed access to some of his deepest thoughts and longest reaching plans. These were the exceptional minority that he had all but complete faith in; they would follow him to their deaths if need be, if it would further their goals. They were the ones for whom the revolution would most benefit, its deepest believers. They were among the strongest wizards and witches of the age, and they were most assuredly on the top of the Order's 'to kill' list. As a result of their rather high profile, many had been killed over the course of the war. What once was twelve was now nine, though two had been replaced.

Presently, what was remaining of the circle was gathering in the rather large meeting hall of Azkaban Prison. The candles in their sconces burned low, casting eerie shadows in the dim light across the room. The atmosphere was perfect for a meeting of some of the most deadly and vicious magic wielders the wizarding world had ever known.

Voldemort's eyes glowed a brilliant ruby in the darkness; his gaze penetrated the depths of the hall as his most loyal followers entered: first Avery and Dolohov, waltzing in confidently but clearly unnerved by the room's ambiance; then alone came Bellatrix Lestrange—one of his favorites—her husband and his brother, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, had perished not a year before in a rather bloody battle in France; Macnair and Pettigrew were next, the short, round, and balding man's eyes quivered in their sockets, and Voldemort struggled against the irrational urge to crush him underfoot; the next to arrive were Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape, two more of his favorites who had been with him and remained loyal to him for longer than most; lastly came Jean Zabini and his daughter, Blaise, fairly new inductees into the circle, but he was as certain of their loyalty as he was the others—not one of these people would betray him.

They wouldn't dare.

The consequences would be far greater than even they could fathom.

After the group had finished gathering around his throne, which was situated in the middle of the farthest wall from the door and was lavishly and richly decorated with gold and jewels that were most likely worth more than any Death Eater could dream of, they bowed and kneeled as was custom, until he finally commanded them to rise and set the meeting in motion.

"I am…_glad_ that you all could attend," he said silkily, his eyes lingering on Severus. Though the man was a premier potions master and a valuable Death Eater, he had not shown up the last time Voldemort had called; though the spy had given some excuse of being in the middle of a meeting with Dumbledore's 'Order,' the deed would not go unpunished, and the Dark Lord wanted to convey that message to the man.

Snape understood perfectly.

After that moment's pause, he continued.

"The reason for this sudden meeting is two-fold. First, there is to be a mission to a small muggle village in Northern Ireland, and I need several trustworthy individuals to lead it." He eyed the group, aware that they knew what he was asking but at the same time not asking.

"What sort of mission, my lord?" asked Lucius.

Voldemort's gaze flicked to the regal blond.

"A _destructive_ one."

And the implication was clear. A cruel grin spread across Malfoy's face.

"Then I will go," he declared.

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed dangerously at those presumptuous words.

"You will go where I tell you to go, Lucius," he hissed, and the aristocrat blanched. Satisfied with the warning, Voldemort continued: "But yes, you will go." Malfoy released an almost imperceptible sigh of relief that sent a strange sort of pleased sensation down the Dark Lord's spine. He had frightened the man, made him fear for his life.

_That_ was what power truly was:

When with a single exclamation you could make a fully-grown, mature, and powerful wizard quiver.

_That_ was what the Dark Lord lived for; he almost didn't want the war to end. Would that lessen his fun?

"My lord, may I go also?" a voice suddenly broke the calm of the room, startling the Dark Lord out of his reverie. His gaze transferred to the young girl standing next to her father. She seemed so small next to the man, but he could sense the potential within her: much more than that of her relative. Examining her expression, he found her eyes properly downcast and her face hooded. He had yet to send her on a mission, and he knew this well. Voldemort was not one to forget even the most insignificant of details. He knew she was loyal, and he knew she was powerful; but was she really mature and decisive enough to take on this responsibility? He considered: Lucius would be there in case things got out of hand, but Lucius himself was currently rather shamed in the Death Eater ranks due to the defection of his son, a boy he had promised was Slytherin to the core and supported the cause to the utmost extent. Voldemort was amused by this dissatisfaction: he had been expecting the boy's transition from the first moment he had met him, but it was fun for him to string the Malfoy along.

Then another thought came to him; the Zabini girl was the same age as Potter, wasn't she? That would mean that they were in the same year at Hogwarts, and even though they were in opposing Houses, he in Gryffindor and she in Slytherin, they would have had to be at least slightly familiar with each other: keep your enemies closer, after all. And if he were to go through with his plan, it would probably help to have someone familiar with Potter along.

"Very well then," he began. "You may go also, miss Zabini."

"Thank you, my lord." And she backed away slowly, leaving more room for the others.

Now it was time for his potions master's punishment.

"Severus, you will also be going along," he declared, and the surprise veritably rolled off of Snape at the sudden pronouncement.

"But, my lord, you know I—" Snape spoke quickly, anxiously, before being interrupted.

"_You…will…GO, Severus,_" Voldemort demanded, his voice coming in short hisses. He was well aware of Snape's aversion to being on the battlefield; no matter how strong of a dueler he was, he much preferred to stay behind brewing the potions and working within the ranks of Dumbledore's 'Order' in order to bring it down. However, the Dark Lord would not let _anything_ go unpunished, and Snape was much too valuable a figure to simply kill, maim, or torture. This would have to do, and it would also provide Lucius's enemies with a reasonable alternative leader.

Besides, psychological torture was _much_ more enjoyable sometimes.

"Then it is settled. Severus, Lucius, you shall bring a team of five of your best men to the apparation chamber at this time tomorrow night. More details will be provided exclusively; and if you, miss Zabini, would show up then too, it would be much appreciated." He said silkily, sarcastically, rhetorically. When the Death Eaters in question nodded their assent, the Dark Lord continued. "Now for my second topic: Harry Potter. As you are all aware, he is currently in our most high security…_debriefing cell_." He took a moment to allow a cruel and insane grin to spread across his features. "But he will not stay there for long."

"Then you are going to kill him?" Pettigrew asked in his high pitched, squeaking voice, so much like that of a rat that it was a wonder anyone had ever trusted him.

"No, I am not," Voldemort answered simply, slightly annoyed at the interruption.

"You are going to move him then?" This time the question was Macnair's.

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord responded angrily: "_No, I am not!_" Then he casually flicked his wrist, his wand seemingly appearing in his fisted hand. "_Crucio_." The curse shot as a bullet from his wand, slamming into the Death Eater and sending him sprawling to the ground, shaking violently and howling in immense pain. He waited for several moments to pass before releasing the curse and replacing his wand. "Now I will explain what will happen: Harry Potter will join my ranks as a Death Eater," he explained calmly, coolly, and in complete seriousness.

Voldemort's inner circle was stupefied; he could not have just said what they thought he had just said, could he have?

They were confused.

"W—what?" Snape stuttered, ironically voicing all of those present's thoughts.

"He will become a Death Eater," the Dark Lord repeated.

"My lord, with all due respect," Lucius said, "You cannot seriously believe that he has betrayed his friends and allies to join us."

"Do not tell me what I can or cannot believe, Lucius," Voldemort warned. "But no, you are correct. I do not believe him."

This, of course, did not serve to help sort out the Death Eaters' confusion. Rather, it simply exponentially increased it.

"Then why are you allowing him to join?" Blaise questioned, ever practical. Quickly, her father shot her a warning glare, worried for her safety, presumably, but she merely ignored him and gazed questioningly yet respectfully up at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort smirked; he liked her. She had talent, and passion, and bravery; he was able to envision quite a promising future for the young woman.

"That is the question we must ask ourselves," he answered cryptically. At his followers' confused looks, he continued on. "There is a certain…_darkness_ that hangs about our young Potter. He is…_tainted_, if you will. He and everyone else may believe that he is the light's greatest weapon, but he is as susceptible to the darkness as any wizard. Possibly, he is even more so. I know that he resents muggles; I have been tracking and researching him for a long time, you see. His childhood was strangely analogous to my own: he grew up uncared for, a slave in his own home, with muggles who detested him for what he was. They abused him, and that has left a stain on his soul. A stain that I will nurture and help grow; and it is this same stain that will produce one of my finest Death Eaters. It is this same stain that will end the war."

There was no murmuring as there would have been if such a pronouncement had been made amidst his full array of Death Eaters; these soldiers were _much _too well trained. They had recovered nicely from their slack at his earlier announcement, and he would grant them that one; his decision was, after all, even a shock to him.

"He will be going along on the mission tomorrow night," Voldemort said. "If that is all right with you two: Lucius, Severus?" He glanced at each Death Eater in turn, and they both nodded in acquiescence, though it was obvious they were not thrilled at the idea. "However, I want the job of keeping an eye on him to go to miss Zabini." He did not ask her permission, nor did he even bother to glance at her. She was new; he did not need it. The Dark Lord, no matter how promising she was, did not need her getting full of herself.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her surprise, but she quickly hid it behind a stone-faced acceptance.

"Yes, my lord," she declared.

Voldemort nodded.

"Then that is all; you may all return to your duties. Malfoy, Snape, Zabini, do not forget about your obligations. The consequences would be…_severe_."

----

Blaise Zabini violently threw her robe down upon her cot, cursing as the soft velvet like material bunched in upon itself while it soared through the air and slammed down on to the makeshift bed. She flew across the room, balling her hands into fists and beating repeatedly on the settled article of clothing, disturbing it once more. She struggled to take out her frustrations on the garment and not on some helpless Death Eater, should one happen to pass by.

Oh, how she hated Harry Potter. Oh, how she loathed his very existence. Oh, how she desperately wished to end his miserable life.

She was _finally_ going on a real mission as a member of Voldemort's inner circle, and she had been stuck with the job of babysitting the newbie! And not just any newbie: Harry freaking Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, savoir of the light, destroyer of Voldemort, yes, _that_ Harry Potter.

He was not one to be confused.

She growled deep in her throat; she had never like _any_ Gryffindors, and she most especially detested the Golden Trio and everything that they stood for. As a rising Death Eater, she had hated Potter, Weasley, and Granger with a passion, and now she was stuck with their honorable leader.

_Wonderful._

Seriously, how could Voldemort even _think_ that The-Boy-Who-Lived would make a decent Death Eater? As if! He was the poster boy for goodness, and no matter what her master said, no not-quite-wonderful childhood was going to change that.

She dropped her strength and collapsed into her pillow. Wrapping her arms tightly around it, she buried her head into the comfy, satiny object and sighed.

This just sucked.

----

Voldemort stared down upon the broken and bloodied body before him with disdain. It barely even looked alive, let alone like a functional human being. It had been removed from its chains and was lying huddled together in a singular mass on the floor.

He turned to one of the guards next to him, one eye still gazing at the pool of blood and sweat soaking beneath the body.

"Can he hear me?" he demanded.

"Yes, my lord," the guard answered, eyes averted.

"Leave us."

The guard nodded once before rushing out of the cell as quickly as he could; the heavy stone door slammed shut after him, the sound reverberating throughout the room.

The Dark Lord turned back toward the boy.

Walking toward the body, he bent down, and with a ghastly pale finger and a frighteningly sharp nail, he lifted the head. Surprisingly, the eyes opened slightly, but instead of the vibrant emerald he had been expecting, there was a dull and lifeless green.

"Harry," he questioned in his silky, snake-like hiss, "Can you hear me?"

The head gave one nod.

"Good. Harry, I have a proposition for you. You want to prove your loyalty to me, yes?"

Another nod.

"Yes, I see. There is this mission tomorrow; some of my best Death Eaters are taking part in it. I want you to go. Do you understand?"

Again Harry nodded.

"Will you do this thing for me?"

And with one last nod, Harry sealed his fate.

"Good, I thought you might."

----

The night air was cold, and the wind was biting. It blew about you, slicing skin and freezing your bones; frost strayed into your bloodstream and attacked you from the inside. Nature seemed almost intolerably cruel in that instant, so very like a rabid and caged beast defending her realm against unwelcome intruders.

It was too bad, Harry Potter considered, that nature could not hold up against magic.

All of the Death Eaters had warming spells placed on them, and they all felt as fresh as they had when they'd left Azkaban. In Harry's case, that wasn't exceptionally fresh.

He still ached unbearably in places too numerous and too private to mention; before this ordeal, he hadn't even been aware that some of these places _could_ be pierced by the fiery lance of pain. All of his wounds were healed, right down to the tiny cuts on his hands and palms from his own clawing grasp. When in the grips of immense suffering, one does not even consider what one is doing to one's own body; there is only the mere wish for the agony to cease.

Quite suddenly, Harry was brought out of his reminiscence.

"It is time," Malfoy said, his white-blond hair glistening in the moonlight. "Remember: we destroy everything; there should be _no_ survivors." Then his eyes turned to Harry's glowing emerald ones, and they grew bitter and hateful. "Zabini, keep an eye on the boy; make sure he doesn't try to play the hero." The girl, who Harry vaguely recognized as a Slytherin from his school days, half-heartedly nodded her agreement.

And then it began.

It was chaos, a myriad of flames and heat, screams and death. People came charging from homes as the buildings were set alight, but they were quickly struck down by curses, often of the painful and torturous variety. Some of the muggles attempted to defend themselves, but not even a rifle could hold its own against a well-placed killing curse. The Death Eaters danced amongst the frightened and confused villagers as angels of death, bringing the sweet release of eternity to all those they encountered.

Harry stood back and watched.

It was a massacre, but it was almost beautiful in a sadistic sort of way.

He shook his head; he should be participating. It went against everything he stood for, but this was the light's last and best chance at victory. And to make it work, he had to make Voldemort and his Death Eaters sincerely believe that he was as dark as them; he had to gain their confidence and their trust.

"Potter!" The voice came suddenly and out of nowhere, but he recognized it as that of the girl, Zabini. "Behind you! Pay attention, or you'll be dead as soon as we get back!"

He spun around quickly and saw what she was referring to: somehow a lone muggle had managed to sneak his way around the Death Eaters and Harry himself and was currently madly dashing his way toward the village's exit. Harry glanced around only to discover, as he had feared, that he was the only one of them in range.

_The only one of them._

Yes, he was one of them: he _had_ to be.

He gulped, reaching his hand toward the wand holster at his waist and gently pulling the small holly stick from its embrace. He fingered his wand familiarly as he brought it up and to bear on the fleeing form.

The man was ten feet away by then.

He could do this; he had to. It was for the good of all. If he succeeded in this endeavor, the light could prevail!

Fifteen feet.

Really, what was one man in the scheme of things? By killing this one individual, this unimportant muggle, he was on his way to saving billions!

Twenty feet.

This was how it was; this was how it _had to be_. There was no other way. He _had_ to make them believe; he _had_ to!

Twenty-five feet.

"Potter!" Blaise screamed once more, obviously annoyed.

Harry ignored her.

The man would be out of range shortly; if he was going to do it, he had to do it now.

Thirty feet.

This was it: the first test. He had to pass; he had to pass to get to the others.

He had to pass for the good of all, for the good of mankind.

Thirty-five feet.

This was it.

"_Avada…_"

Fourty feet.

"…_Kedavra._"

The brilliant green curse, almost the color of Harry's eyes, jetted from the tip of his wand with uncompromising precision, slamming into the back of the fleeing man and sending him flying and falling forward several meters before he collapsed onto the ground, his eyes wide open and staring, fearful, in death.

"Finally…" breathed Blaise, but Harry didn't hear her.

He stared at the tip of his wand in amazement. He had _never_ felt like that before. The power that had rushed through him as his lips mouthed the curse almost wordlessly was incomparable to anything he could think of. There was nothing in his memory that he could liken it to. He certainly hadn't felt that way when he'd cast the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange back in Fifth Year. Was that feeling the power of Avada Kedavra?

He shook his head once more, still in slight disbelief over the occurrence. He had _killed_ a man, not just a man, an _innocent_ man.

_But it was necessary_, a voice whispered silkily inside of his head. _Remember, it had to be done. If you hadn't killed him, your cover would have been blown, and the light's last hope would have been destroyed. This is for the good of the light, Harry, all of it._

_Yes_, he realized, _I kill so that others will not have to die. I kill so that others may live. What is one life next to a billion anyway? There is no comparison_.

He felt the power rush through him once more, livening his cells and his veins, empowering him in a way that he had never felt before. He would do this thing, this act for Voldemort and his minions, but when it came time for the play's conclusion, he would kill the man. He would kill him for the good of the light. He would kill him so that others might live.

Because that was how it _had_ to be.

He turned toward the burning wreckage of the town and the other Death Eaters.

_Yes, one town for a billion_.

How it _had_ to be.

If any of the other Death Eaters had caught a glimpse of Harry's face in that moment, they would have surely doubted their earlier assessment.

His normally bright and glowing eyes were dark, and in place of the carefully constructed neutral expression or frown, there was a very familiar and very frightening grin of insane glee.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Descent**

_I have murdered._

Such a simple sentence. It's so easy to say. So easy to think. Impossible to accept.

_I have ended life wilfully. By my own hands an innocent person will never breathe again._

It sounded so alien.

He raised a grisly, muddied hand close to his face, brushing against his nose; he was barely able to make out its vague outline against the damp night reflecting off his pale skin.

_I am a murderer._

Harry Potter was a murderer.

"Oh, Merlin," his voice, cracked and broken, was inaudible, "Is this all worth it?"

_Avada Kadavra_.

The words. They were inviting. In his mind, always, they would repeat, looping, swirling, they were eddying within the fog.

His eyes fluttered closed, perspiration slick over his body, unable to stay immobile for any more than a few moments at time. He was a husk, living the day through a haze, and the night through fitful darkness. Sleep lasting merely a few seconds, before being jerked out into pitiful consciousness, then returning to the dark to be awakened by his movements again. He was surrounded by darkness, in a tiny cell, windowless; the only light stretching from down the hall outside his door, leaving but the tiniest shade of dark-light to creep under his door. The cell wasn't even long enough for him to lie down, or high enough for him to stand. To crouch, to stoop or to lie in a ball were his only choices.

_Why am I here?_

What was his purpose here? Who was here? Why was here? Who was where? How was why? Who was h - ?

Momentarily, his ragged mind gave up on him, and he blacked out while crouching, swaying then falling back against the stone wall, cracking his head against the cold surface, bringing him back with a coarse moan. This was what he now considered sleep.

_Avada Kadavra._

He remembered that night. That time he had experienced power for the first time. Oh, power. Now he understood why Voldemort was who he was.

_No! The power is in the light! Murdering is not power! Voldemort is weak because he doesn't know this. He does not know power._

_Who is Voldemort?_

Again, his eyes fluttered, rolling back into his head, his eyes vibrating rapidly beneath the lids. His mouth hung open, drool pooling on his lower lip.

Images burning through his mind.

Trembling. Aching. Moaning. Screaming. Raging. Killing.

Killing.

Murder.

Murderer.

_I have murdered._

_I am a murderer._

So alien.

--

With a rusted, metallic groan the door swung open, and Blaise Zabini stepped into the dark cell, squinting into the darkness. A black bundle lay at the back, shuddering.

"Up, Potter. He summons you." She grunted, monotone. There was no need for elaboration as to whom 'He' was. Curiously, Blaise watched as Harry rose stoically, still trembling, although now accustomed to the random summonses that were signature of the Dark Lord. His eyes were glazed, his hair dishevelled, always inaudibly muttering under his breath. His back was to her.

"Potter?" Warily, she took a step toward him, her wand arm instinctively pointed at his defenceless back. He ignored her, turning and beginning to take weary, stumbling steps out the now open door. She instantly flared up in angry indignation. It was not a common trait among Death Eaters to be rather tolerant of insolence, and never was it accepted. She snatched at his shoulder, sensing an immediate tension in his muscles at the sudden contact, preparing to spin him around to point her wand directly in his face.

_Make him sweat._

She found herself with a wand point quivering millimetres from her left eyeball. An animalistic snarl tearing from Harry's bared lips, and before even he had realized it, he had begun to speak the words that were forever in his mind.

"_Avada K–"_

"_Crucio_!"

Harry was literally thrown off his feet by the sheer force of the curse that hit him, crashing against the wall with a sickening crunch punctuated by several snaps before collapsing to the ground in a heap, moaning and shuddering, incapable of screaming with pain due to a now broken jaw.

Blaise stood motionless, frozen, eyes wide in shock. She had nearly died. She had been half a word away from being lost forever within that emerald flash.

He had been far too quick. How had he moved like that?

Severus Snape strolled forward, his wand still pointing at the collapsed heap, leaving it to merely twitch every now and then. He turned to Blaise, her senses only now returning to her.

"Far too careless, Zabini." He hissed, pocketing his wand. "Leave. I will make sure that he makes it to the Dark Lord."

Obediently, Blaise hurriedly walked away, too proud to run, but wishing to be far away very quickly, still feeling the ice rippling through her veins. She should be dead.

That was far, far, far too close.

Snape turned his back on the receding form of Blaise, returning his gaze to Harry's broken form, now disturbingly silent. First of all, he had to be awakened. Snape grinned.

"_Crucio._"

Screams. Roars of pain mouthed through formless lips, through the shattered bone of his jaw. They echoed up the hall, further empowering Blaise's need to get far away. Harry was sure that he would die of this agony. But finally, mercifully, Snape's wand fell. Harry lay panting, unable to move, unable to breathe properly, blood trickling down the edge of his broken lips, torn by his own teeth. Regretfully, Snape muttered a healing spell on the more life threatening of Harry's wounds, patiently waiting out the rhythmic crunching as Harry's broken jaw, spine, and numerous ribs stitched back together. He left a few smaller bones broken however, but nothing that was outwardly visible, no point in Harry feeling comfortable. He quietly revelled in the sight of Harry struggling in the filth.

"My Master has summoned your presence, Potter, as undeserving as you are. You will be there in two minutes, by your own means or if I have to curse you there. I have no preference." He lied, as Harry well knew.

_For Dumbledore_, Harry cried inwardly. Desperately seeking reason not to kill Snape where he stood.

For the second time in some minutes, Harry dragged himself painfully from the ground, failing in the first two attempts, before letting out a groan as he finally stood, swaying dangerously on the spot, pain exploding in his head. He managed to stumble forward, brushing against Snape's shoulder, ignoring him completely. Rage consuming him, yet he remained silent and kept moving.

Snape watched him move away, spat on the ground where Harry had lain, then moved swiftly away to attend to his own duties, his robes billowing behind him.

--

"Hello, Harry."

As always, even when he was expecting it, that cold, nasal voice left Harry screaming in fear inwardly. And as always, he felt that numbing sensation as Voldemort's mind invaded on his, searching him, he resisted of course, through Occlumency. But it was impossible to know how much Voldemort knew, how much he could and had extracted. He remained silent, as he should in the Dark Lord's presence. Voldemort was positively flying on the inside; never had he ever had such fun than these last few weeks when Harry Potter had been in his mercy. To do with what he willed. He could not possibly be capable of describing the ecstasy of seeing the boy broken, crying, screaming, fuming.

Ah, the very memories left him groaning within, the pleasure unbearable. And to top it off, if he could possibly be any happier, the boy was convinced he was doing all this for Dumbledore's pitiful Order, that he, Voldemort, the greatest wizard the world had ever known, was fooled by the killing of a worthless, filthy muggle. Dumbledore had granted him his dearest wish by sending the boy here. Not for the first time, Voldemort questioned how Dumbledore could have possibly sent him Harry, when he was quite obviously incapable of hiding his intentions. What was he playing at? The Potter brat was their saviour. Was he surrendering? Converting? Impossible.

"How have you been faring?" Voldemort's slit-like nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell Harry's petrified fear, loving it. He submerged himself in it.

"Acceptably, Lord." Harry kept his voice low and steady, it seemed husky and broken, and there was no strength behind it, merely air passing between parted lips, and he involuntarily swayed on the spot.

Voldemort smiled again, enjoying his perverse mind game with the boy no end.

"Good, good, Harry. Listen closely now, I have another order for you. Another mission." He noted with quiet joy the way the boy's attention seemed to pique. He wondered if Harry was already addicted to the kill, after only one. There were people like that. He loved those people.

"You are to go with another dispatch of Death Eaters, to a village on the borders of Germany, mostly filthy muggles, but not devoid of wizards, that should keep it interesting for you. I have heard wind that there is a small Order outpost there. Obliterate it. I want no survivors, not even those willing to convert. Examples must be made, Harry, examples are necessary. Those that aide the Order will not be shown mercy."

"Yes, Lord." Harry kept his eyes downcast. He was defeated; he had been from the moment he had set foot on the island. Voldemort could not be resisted.

The Dark Lord laughed inwardly.

_Oh Merlin, this is beautiful._

--

"_Avada Kadavra!"_

_Oh yes, there it is. The power. The Emerald Power._

Saying it just felt so right.

_For the Order, I will kill. To bring down Voldemort, I will murder._

Blaise rounded on Harry, furious that he had refused to wait for all the Death Eater's to Apparate beside them, ignoring the Dark Lord's orders for a group attack.

The green flash was dazzling, and the muggle woman crumpled to the ground instantly. Before she hit the earth, another two had fallen to Harry's wand. Pleasantly surprised by the change in Harry, yet indignant at his disobedience of authority, although not surprised by it, the Golden Boy was famous for discarding the orders of his superiors. He had been so, even in his youngest days at Hogwarts. Blaise smiled before turning her wand on the crowds too. No point in waiting now.

The village was set ablaze, fires roaring, crackling, passing from rooftop to rooftop. The air was thick with the malicious laughter of the constantly Apparating Death Eaters, enjoying their game, accompanied by the terrified and pain-filled screams tearing through his skull, boring into Harry's head. He was forced to ignore them as many more innocent people fell to the flames of the Death Eaters' euphoric wills. Harry strolled through the streets, casting aside lives as he bared his teeth wolfishly behind his mask. It wasn't until half the village was dead before the Order managed to gather a counter-attack, setting up a blockade in one of the only buildings not blazing madly, probably protected by charms and such. A swiftly created blockade created from the crumbling remains of the village collapsing around them was the only visible defence of the building. Again, people tried to resist, muggles, wizards and witches alike. They all fell before the Death Eaters.

Cursing aside a careless muggle man, Harry clambered over the edge of the defensive wall, ducking a ruby blast as a wand somewhere attempted to stun him. Blaise was following from a distance, merely keeping an eye on the young wizard, enjoying the kills she made, but enjoying those that he killed all the more. Harry's eyes swivelled from behind the narrow slits in his mask, seeking the originator as more Death Eater's breached the wall, removing what little resistance remained.

Harry's eyes rested on a raven-haired witch, firing off spells from an open doorway in the building before ducking back for cover from the counter-fire. He wasn't sure if it was her that had attempted to stun him, but he wasn't complaining. A kill was a kill. He strolled casually towards her, ignoring fleeing muggles around him, sure that they would be picked off as they attempted to escape the village.

Despite his calm demeanour, his heart was roaring beneath his ribcage, he was sweating. This would be his first kill of a non-muggle. All previous murders barely counted. He had no love for muggles. He never had, really. And he had no reason for otherwise. To him, a muggle was no more than a rat; a pest to be killed before it can spread filth through your home.

But with Death Eaters everywhere, he could not afford to even falter. To do so would show weakness. Voldemort had no need for weak people. Dumbledore was counting on him.

Breathing heavily, he advanced. The witch, now crouching, was unaware that she was currently a target, mercifully facing away from him. He was careful not to make any sudden movements to give away his position to her. Carefully, he continued forwards, his senses ablaze, ducking stray spell fire and being careful to avoid the odd duel between two magic-wielders; not wishing to get into one himself. He was now within twenty feet of the doorway. He raised his wand, aiming at the woman's chest.

"_Avada Kadavra!"_

He cursed loudly, it had missed her, crashing against the plaster wall beside her, and causing her to spin around to face him in alarm. His raging heart stopped.

Cho Chang.

_Oh Merlin, no.  
_

She couldn't recognize him, of course, behind the mask and robes of the Death Eater. He inwardly cried out in anguish. Here it was. His first true test, to meet the requirements of his mission. To murder someone he cared about.

_For Dumbledore. For the mission. For the Order._

Hurriedly, Cho sent a jinx his way to occupy him for the moment it took her to duck into the darkened building. Deflecting the jinx, Harry picked up his pace and ran after her.

She had to die.

_No!_

She had to die.

Harry's pace quickened as he entered the dark building, the echoing cries of spells from inside and outside the building echoing off the cold dilapidated walls, confusing him.

"_Lumos." _He hissed, hoping he had not lost Cho already.

He rounded several corners, ignoring doorways, and passageways. He approached another corner.

"_Stupefy!"_

A Death Eater was cast into his path, through an open door to his left, unconscious.

Warily, Harry froze, dispelling the light of his and readying it before stepping into the doorway.

Cho was in there.

And someone else.

The man's back was to him, bending over a motionless figure crumpled in the corner of the room, checking for a pulse.

Again, Harry's heart stopped. He didn't even need to see the front of him, the back was enough. The man, or someone who had looked just like him had taught him for an entire year. Mad-Eye Moody froze, just stopped moving, his back still to Harry, but that meant nothing, Moody's eye could see back through his head, through bone, flesh and clothes.

And masks.

_Did Dumbledore tell them? Do they know?_

A bellow of rage was his answer. Moody swung around, wand raised, Cho jumping at the sudden scream, also spotting Harry's almost invisible silhouette in the lightless hallway.

Harry saw the jinx coming, and managed to side-step it before it was ever any real danger, side-stepping Cho's curse, as well.

"What are you doing!" Moody's rasping voice roared over the muffled chaos around them, sending off another curse Harry's way. Cho, puzzled by Moody's reaction, fired off another jinx at Harry as well.

Harry remained silent, choosing to deflect the oncoming spells, and then returned fire.

"_Crucio!"_

The experienced Auror deflected the attack with ease, but surprisingly choosing not to return fire, and instead stepping in front of Cho before she could raise her wand again, whether to protect her from Harry, or he from her Harry did not know

Harry raised his wand again.

"_Crucio!"_

This time the scarlet jet was dodged. Moody lowered his wand, staring at Harry for the briefest of seconds before Dis-Apparating. Cho hesitated for only the briefest second after him, before following suit.

Harry felt cheated of his prey, going as far as to let out a small cry of rage at losing his quarry, echoing around the empty room.

Charing out of the now empty building, he took out his frustration on what very few muggles remained, all surviving magical resistance having Dis-Apparated with Moody. Finally, the last muggle fell, and silence remained, only disturbed by the occasional splintering of a support beam somewhere followed by the dull roar of a building collapsing. The Death Eaters remained only momentarily to admire their work, before Dis-Apparating, leaving silent death in their wake.

--

Harry was nearing unconsciousness. The world was nothing but a mesh of lights, darks and shadows. His eyes flitted around the room, unfocused and dazed, pitting whatever lingering thread of control he had into refusing eye contact with those around him. All of them. They were all there. The Death Eaters were gathered; he had not seen so many of them together since the night he arrived here.

He arrived here? Wasn't he always here?

_Where is here? Oh Merlin, what is this place? Who are these people?_

His breath came in short, spasmodic bursts. His chest heaved. His eyes continued to dart around the enormous cavern. The emerald emblazoned sconces, casting sombre light over the world.

_The emerald light. Avada Kadavra._

His head pounded, his ears roaring, his balance teetering, his heart crying.

"Harry Potter."

His crying heart ceased. He is here, He is here for me.

_Evil. Hate. I hate him. I hate evil. I am evil._

He could not see. He could not cry.

"You have proven yourself a Death Eater. You have drunk the blood of the murdered. Of those you have murdered."

_Cold._ _I can taste the cold. It eats me. It devours me. I am gone._

"Raise your left arm."

He did not. His body did.

"Do you swear by your life and your demented soul to serve the Dark Lord, by your every action, thought and intention? Do you swear by the blood in your veins and on your hands?"

He did not.

"I do."

A cold hand. A cold touch. A cold pain. He was on fire. His arm was dying. He was dying.

He could not breathe. He could not concentrate. His head throbbed. He could not think. He could not breathe.

Blur.

Throb.

Pain.

Black.

--

_Who are you?_

_I am I._

_I am you._

_I am not you._

_Who am I?_

_You are I. _

_You are not I._

_I am I._

_What are you?_

_I am you. _

_You are you._

_I am I._

_Where are you?_

_You are I. I am here. You are here._

_Where is here?_

_Here am I. I am you. You are I._

_Where is He?_

_Is He you?_

_Is He I?_

_He is not me. He is not I. I am me. I am I._

_What does He fear?_

_What do I fear?_

_What is fear?_

_He is fear. _

_He fears I._

_He is not me. You are I. Who are you?_

_I am not you. I am not I. I am me. I am I._

_Why is pain? Why am I?_

_Pain is He. Pain is I._

_I am you. I am I._

_What is this dark? _

_Why is he dark?_

_Where am I? _

_You are here, and so am I._

_You are pain. You are I._

_Why am I pain? Why am I?_

_You are the pain of He, not I._

_I am the pain? I am not I?_

_You are you. The pain is I._

_Am I the pain? Am I, I?_

_You are the pain. I am I._

_I am the pain. I am you. You are I._

_You are the pain._

_I am I._

--

"_Avada Kadavra…"_

_So beautiful. So simple. Words to un-do life. That is power. That is control._

"_Make thus disappear"_

_Life. Soul. Spirit. Existence. _

_And thus, thou is gone…_

_The very words, the phrase that counters life; that counters existence. After death there is nothing. Death wins. Death always wins. To bring death, to control death, now that is power._

_Avada Kadavra…_

_The closer one comes to the light, the longer one's shadow grows. To fight the darkness, you must first face it, to face it; you must turn your back on the light. Only larger shadow can cover another. Light, no matter how strong, no matter how much, will never defeat the dark. The dark will always be there, at the edge of the light, pushing back. _

With great sweeping motions, he traced his forefinger through the dust, grime and filth. His movements, faintly, tenderly, lovingly etching through the dank filth that smothered the floor. He was crouched against a wall, hunched over, a tight ball, rocking on his heels. He tenderly mouthed the words, reverently parting his lips to breathe the sacred sounds; the very sensation of the syllables rolling across the tongue gave him no end of pleasure.

_Avada Kadavra…_

Oblivious to all, his forefinger continued tracing through the dust. His lips ceaselessly mouthing the un-spoken words, this time elongating each sound as it came.

_Avada Kadavra…_

"_Potter!"_

Harry was forcefully knocked out of his reverie by a harsh steel-capped boot planted squarely between his ribs. Blaise was glad to hear the muffled grunt of pain beneath the hooded figure. At least he could still feel pain, which invariably lead to him still being human. She hadn't been worried, as such. She was just cautious. Harry Potter had…changed. There was no denying it. Even those who despised him most could not help but notice. Something was different. Harry Potter was changed.


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR 

"_Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it_." – Terry Pratchett

The cave was ancient and weathered; it was dank and coated with an overwhelmingly thick, musky scent that permeated the air and made it rather difficult to breathe. Mildew covered the aged walls, and there was a soft, echoing dripping sound as water from the river above drizzled through the cracks in the high ceiling and built up into a small, murky pool in one corner of the room. There was no light to speak of, save for the odd ritual sconce Voldemort had lit as soon as they'd entered, and they blazed with an emerald fire, casting an eerie glow across the distance that was not unlike Harry's own eyes.

"Do you know what this is, Harry?" Voldemort asked. The two wizards were standing on either side of what appeared to be a giant star encased within a larger circle and drawn in a dripping red paint. Harry was sure it was long-dried blood. In the center of the circle was what looked like a brilliant ruby, glistening in the play of light from the wall sconces.

"It's a pentagram, my lord."

"Indeed," the Dark Lord nodded as his eyes traveled over the design and its jewel. It positively glowed with dark magic, and Voldemort took a moment to allow the glorious feeling of death, decay, and suffering to wash over him, calming him and yet simultaneously fueling his rage. Feeling was a fickle thing, and the darkness was borne of feeling—all feelings. Not just anger or hate, but love and happiness as well. For an overwhelming amount of any emotion was surely unhealthy. Love led to possession, which led to jealousy, which led to anger, which led to hate. It was a vicious yet inescapable cycle, and Voldemort thrived on it. "It has been here for farther back than even I can remember, and over its time it has become a well of sorts." Voldemort glanced at Harry, whose brows were furrowed slightly. "You have a question, Harry?"

"Um, yes, master." Harry said, almost silently. "A well?" His head was bowed submissively, but his eyes worked over the pentagram with as much fervor as the Dark Lord's own.

"Yes, a well of magic. It is said within . . . _certain_ circles that the Lady Morgana herself brought the ruby here and painted the circle in order to protect it."

"To protect it?"

"Yes," Voldemort answered, his own deep, sanguine eyes glinting evilly in the still-flickering glow; they almost appeared reprimanding. "Most assuredly, if one were to try to take it, one would die a most violent death." The Dark Lord stared at his Death Eater for a moment, and then he continued. "But that is not why we are here. It is also rumored that the Lady imbued the jewel and its spell of protection with all of her power." He eyed Harry once more. "You can imagine, Harry, that it was quite powerful even then." When his servant nodded, he went on. "Over the ages, however, it would have only grown exponentially stronger, and if the hearsay is true, it could well be the deepest and oldest source of dark magic in all of Europe."

Silence enfolded the two wizards for several moments, and the only sounds that were heard were those of the dripping water and the crackling of the emerald flames. Voldemort's lips folded into a smirk; the boy was learning well. He would not speak unless his master had directly spoken to him. Unwavering obedience was a necessity.

"Here, Harry, is where we shall begin the first of several exercises that will make you fit to be my heir."

At this proclamation, Harry's head abruptly snapped up, forgoing all propriety.

"Heir?" he choked out.

If the Dark Lord were a regular person, he would have raised an eyebrow; instead, he glared at the boy and replied rather scathingly, "Of course! You did not believe that you would remain some mere Death Eater, did you? One of the faceless, the forgotten? No, you were meant for much greater things, just as I was."

Under the intensity of Voldemort's gaze, Harry appeared as a small child, not the twenty-year-old rather legendary wizard that he was.

"But—but why me?" he asked.

The glare only grew more intense. Perhaps the boy was not as far along as the Dark Lord had expected. But it didn't matter; they were there, and the time was then.

"Because there is no one else_; because you are like me,_" Voldemort hissed, the last part coming out not in English, but in Parseltongue. He offered no further explanation on the latter reason, but continued on with the first. "This well, as well as the others like it, is extremely volatile and extremely dangerous. The ritual we are about to perform requires, in order to create the necessary bond, a user with a certain amount of natural magical ability not normally found within the majority of the wizarding public. The only living wizards that I know of and believe have enough potential to accurately use the circle are the two of us . . . and Dumbledore." He eyed Harry once more. "A question?"

"Yes, master," Harry was calmer and more composed this time; and as such, the Dark Lord could tell that the boy could now feel the darkness permeating the room. It spread as a shroud throughout the cave, covering everything with its thickness, even the stench of the rotting stone. Yet it was powerful, oh so powerful, and it whispered in the ear promises of greatness. Harry's eyes glinted, and Voldemort's smirk grew. "What would happen if someone with insufficient ability attempted this ritual?"

Voldemort replied simply, "They would die a slow and painful death." Then, glancing once more at the center of the circle, he continued. "Let us get on with it. All of the necessary spells have been cast, and you have been prepared yourself, correct?"

"Yes, master."

"Good, then there is but one more thing remaining to be done." Suddenly, his head flicked towards his companion, and his blood-red eyes narrowed, traveling over Harry's lithe form. "Let me warn you of something first, though, _Potter_," he enunciated the boy's surname as he spoke it, something he had not done for quite sometime. He wanted to make this warning clear. "I will not make something that I cannot undo; and if ever I sense even the slightest shadow or hint of betrayal from you, I will not hesitate to strike you down, and you will _suffer _before I lay you to rest."

Harry did not look Voldemort in the eyes; he was not that stupid. Instead, he kept his head bowed and replied with what had become his mantra over the last several months, "Yes, master."

"Very well then," the Dark Lord said. "Take this, and stand in the middle of the circle." He held out, hilt forward, a ceremonial silver dagger. On the blade there were two finely engraved words: _Letum Ambitio_. As Harry walked forward and grasped the blade in his right palm, he felt that even it was wrapped tightly in ancient spells, and he could feel the magic pulse through his veins as he held it gently in his hand.

He stepped in to the middle of the circle, standing over and gazing down at the brilliant ruby, which suddenly seemed even more ancient and powerful than it had before.

"Now, with the blade, spill your blood onto the ruby."

It was a simple command, and Harry did not even hesitate to comply. He opened up his left palm and brought the dagger's sharpest edge to his flesh. Then, in one violent movement, he sliced his skin open, spurting blood up onto his cloak and all over the already gory pentagram. Without bending, he proceeded to turn his palm over, and held it directly over the jewel. Gravity took hold of the pool of blood in his hand, and it fell with a disgusting splat onto the ruby.

Nothing happened.

Then, quite suddenly, the sanguine color of the jewel turned a bright golden yellow, and from there the color's bleeding spread out even to the pentagram. Harry looked around, shocked and bewildered, as from the circle on the floor, brilliant golden walls rose. He was trapped, and his whole world was abruptly bright and golden.

And then, all went dark.

----

Gathering the entirety of the inner circle of the Order of the Phoenix was a relatively hard thing to do; and even though Albus Dumbledore had tried his hardest to do just that for this emergency meeting, not everyone had showed up. Bill and Charlie Weasley were on assignment in France, where they working as Dumbledore's personal emissaries to that branch of the Order and hadn't been able to floo back in time; Nymphadora Tonks was working with Viktor Krum in Eastern Europe, helping them prepare to hold off Voldemort's advancing forces; and Severus Snape, whom he hadn't actually heard from in several weeks, was probably tied up in Azkaban with Voldemort in his role as a spy.

But still, all was well.

Through his half-moon spectacles and incessant eye-twinkle, Dumbledore watched as the last member to arrive—Ron Weasley—stumbled into the room and into his seat next to Hermione Granger. The two old friends leaned towards each other and exchanged a few words before Ron's mother, who was sitting opposite him, bopped him on the top of his head and called them to attention. Ron let out a quiet huff as he gently rubbed his scalp and glared at his mother, but this time Hermione shushed him. So, crossing his arms and with a dejected look across his face, he turned towards Dumbledore.

The headmaster smiled.

It was good to see them still acting so innocent and caring, even with the world in the state that it had been for the last several years. It needed more love and affection.

His musings were cut short when somebody finally spoke up.

"So, what's this about?" a voice asked rather snidely. Dumbledore glanced up at its owner; it was a slick, silver-haired, haughty, and thin young, aristocratic man who was currently the recipient of some rather snide and rude comments by one Ron Weasley. "Oh, shut up, Weasel," Draco Malfoy said, apparently not embarrassed at all at the public confrontation. "Unlike _some_people, I have important work to be doing. I've been aiding the Germans in their open rebellion for the last sixth months; what have _you_ been doing? Oh, never mind, that's right—your mother won't let you go on missions alone. For Merlin's sake, aren't you an adult?"

This started an all out argument, and for a moment, the headmaster just watched as insults were flung back and forth within the group of his most trusted companions, a bemused smile on his lips. Life could sure be amusing. However, they were at war, and this meeting would not have been called were something not terribly wrong.

He cleared his throat.

Immediately, all the noise ceased, and every single person's attention was on him. It was a sign of their respect for him that at the drop of a hat, they were prepared to stop whatever they were doing if he wished to speak.

"As inclined as I am to allow this fairly engaging argument to continue," he said, "I feel as though the request for this meeting would not have been put in had it not required our immediate attention." Nobody spoke for several moments, and Dumbledore smiled gently. "That means the floor is yours, Moody, my friend."

The seasoned Auror took it in stride and placed his two wrinkled, gnarled hands on top of the table. "You all know that I was in charge of the outpost at Dorf, the small German village on the border of France." Several people nodded. "And you also know that it was attacked merely days ago by a group of Death Eaters, presumably on Voldemort's direct orders." Again, several nods. "What you don't know is what happened during the attack. We had no hope of adequately defending the place; we simply didn't have enough troops. We were relying on its relative anonymity to keep it safe, and we were hoping to eventually turn it either into a base or a refugee facility. Needless to say, neither of those options will be happening.

"Back to the point: towards the end of the fight, I had pulled another Auror, miss Cho Chang, away from the action, and led her back to the W.R.—that's the wardless room, where we can dis-apparate from, but where, if someone apparates in, they still wouldn't be able to gain entrance to the base because of the protection spells. I was gathering some of the secure documents I'd been collecting when a stray Death Eater found us. He tried to curse miss Chang, but couldn't hit her; she didn't know who it was, but with my eye, I could see through the mask." He paused for a moment, swiveling his eye around to gauge the look on every present person's face. "It was Harry Potter."

Immediately several voices spoke up in protest, and then several more spawned from those, and again, and again, until there was a loud, almost unbearable, cacophony of voices either denying or accusing one of their most devout members of treachery. Dumbledore, sitting silently, was surprised to note that Draco Malfoy joined neither side, but rather sat slouched back in his seat, a bewildered look on his face. There was definitely more to that boy than met the eye, and the headmaster loved puzzles.

Seeing that they were getting nowhere, and now quite bored with the discussion, Dumbledore tapped the top of the table almost silently, and once more the noise silenced completely.

"Now, I'm sure there's an explanation," he said.

"Explanation?" Mad-Eye exclaimed. "The boy tried to cast an Unforgivable on one of his old friends several times! What sort of explanation could there be, Albus?"

"There _is_ an explanation," Dumbledore replied, and this time his voice was tinged with a hint of a hard edge. "But I am not sure if you are prepared to hear it." At this, Mad-Eye looked properly quelled. "Harry Potter has become a Death Eater—"

The voices sounded again, this time in disbelief. Once more the protests and the acknowledgements arose, loud and interrupting, but Dumbledore had no intention of sitting still this time around.

"—ON MY ORDERS!" his voice boomed, and everyone froze, looking at the headmaster in shock. Even the normally stoic Malfoy boy seemed alarmed.

"W—what?" miss Granger queried. "Your orders? Why?" She looked overwhelmingly worried, and almost thoughtlessly, Ron wrapped an arm protectively about her shoulders.

Dumbledore sighed, and then drove on to what he had prepared to say to them. "There is not much I can reveal—not even to you all. The consequences could prove too great. But let it be known among us, that Harry Potter is not evil, and he has only joined Voldemort in the hope of destroying him. He is still our friend, and he cares for every one of us." Here Malfoy snorted, and Ron glared angrily at him. "He has become what he despises in order to save us. _That_ is true bravery, true selflessness."

"But Professor," Draco's voice, surprisingly, began, though it still possessed a hard, skeptical edge. "I grew up around Death Eaters; I know what they're like—what kind of things they do, what kind of games they play. Don't you think that maybe the temptation there is . . . too great?"

The headmaster smiled gently at the Slytherin before answering him. "I trust Harry as I trust Severus—completely and utterly, with my life. They put their lives in danger in a hope for a better future; and I know, deep in my heart, that neither will ever betray me."

----

Being awoken by the Cruciatus Curse was somewhat akin to being awoken by being dipped in alcohol and set on fire, only multiplied several times. Every nerve ending blazed with an unbearable sense of agony, feeling as though hot pokers were ripping the victim's body apart from the inside out and gnawing on the burning flesh. The sense of muscle control was thrown completely out the window, and they contracted and expanded of their own free will, making the recipient shake out of control and only furthering the mental trauma. The victim yearned for the sweet release of death, if only to end the ongoing nightmare.

During his stay in Azkaban, Harry Potter had grown quite used to be being awoken like that.

Abruptly the spell was lifted; and Harry was slammed back into reality, gasping and covered in sweat, his red-rimmed eyes swimming painfully in their sockets, searching for his attacker. As it ever was, Severus Snape was standing over him, his wand arm extended and his face twisted into a feral, cruel grin.

"Awake now, _Potter_?" He spat the name with vehemence, disgust, and hatred; and Harry was left to wonder how Dumbledore could ever have trusted this man. To him, the answer seemed obvious: the headmaster was a fool. He was too trusting, too open, too _good_. Harry's eyes narrowed in hatred; it was obvious for whom Snape truly worked.

"W—what," he choked, still attempting to catch his breath, "Are _you_ doing here?"

Snape smirked widely. "It's payback, Potter. I'll see you suffer, and eventually, I will kill you." When Harry didn't respond, the Death Eater raised his wand once more, pointing it directly at Harry's head. "_Cruc_—"

Harry's eyes snapped wide open, his blood shot through his veins, thundering in his ears so that he could make nothing else out, a darkness spread over him; and before he could even think to react, his body was in motion. His left arm snapped out, slamming into Snape's wrist, shoving it roughly away from his body and sending him stumbling back several steps. Using the extra time, Harry's arms shot back behind his head only to shove off roughly from the dank cot; he flew through the air for a moment until his feet touched the ground, and he landed in a crouch. In the same motion, he allowed his momentum to swing him swiftly around, leg extended, knocking his assailant's legs out from under him. Standing up in the midst of the turn, he swung across the Death Eater's back, until he was situated on the man's opposite side. While Snape was still falling, he grabbed the man's wand arm at the wrist, twisted it in one smooth motion—delighting in the crack of the bones—and pulled the arm around to point Snape's own wand at his face. When they finally hit the ground—it had taken mere seconds, but to Harry the moments had seemed stretched out and long—Snape had his now broken wrist clenched in a tight grip and his wand pointed straight into his right eye; and Harry hovered over him, his right knee digging into the underside of his opponent's ribs, effectively trapping the man.

If it were possible, Harry was breathing even harder now. What had Voldemort done to him? He had never had any sort of physical combat training before, and yet somehow his body had known exactly what to do in order to take advantage of the situation. He stared down into Snape's eyes, and was slightly surprised to see that they wide in shock and slight—was that fear?

A smirk spread across Harry's face; suddenly the situation seemed a whole lot brighter.

"How do you like that?" he hissed. His muscles were tense in his body, working to keep Snape—who was now struggling—pinned to the cold, stone floor.

Hearing someone he hated so much talking to him as if he were trash, the fear vanished from the Death Eater's eyes; instead, it was replaced with a hungry sort of hatred and a cocky glare.

"You think you have me, Potter?" he asked, and at these words Harry's face twisted into one of disgust. He remembered everything Snape had ever done to him: every taunt, every unfair deduction, every bit of belittling, even the torture he'd endured in the recent months. He _despised_ the man. "What are you going to do; you can't curse me with my own wand." A smirk, not unlike the one Harry wore previously, now pulled at Snape's lips.

Harry's face fell back into an amused look, and he raised an eyebrow. "I won't have to."

"Wha—" Snape began, but he never got to finish. For at that moment, Harry pressed harshly down on Snape's wrist, and the man's own wand shoved roughly through his eye, spraying blood and gore across himself and Harry, and straight into his brain, ending his miserable existence. The familiar sensation of almost sexual pleasure that was received upon taking life washed over him. He loved it; it was an addiction, and he craved to fulfill it again. It was almost as though he were one of those junkies who ordered illegal potions that made them see things and feel things that weren't actually there, dying to take another sip. Oh, how he longed for another sip, another taste.

And then the feeling, that euphoric high, washed away, gone, much too quickly.

Releasing his now deceased ex-professor—for whom he felt no love lost—and sliding off of him, Harry let out a great sigh and relaxed his aching muscles. Sitting there on the floor of a dank and dirty, cold cell in Azkaban prison, he lifted his hands up to his face, examining them. They looked the same as always, but there was something there beneath the surface, something lurking just around the corner.

Power.

Such power.

Clenching his hands, Harry allowed a grin of pure dark glee to cross his face.

Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he'd originally thought.

----

"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord spoke, sitting upon his throne, which was set majestically within the cavernous great hall of Azkaban prison. Harry himself knelt at the wizard's feet, bending over in respect and fealty. "One most disturbing rumor has been brought to my attention." When Harry did—properly—not respond, Voldemort nodded slightly and continued. "Severus Snape, Harry, have you seen him?"

Harry did not even consider lying. "Yes, master."

The Dark Lord had supposed as much; he well knew what had happened, but it was a test of Harry's loyalty to see what the boy would do. Would he lie and risk the Dark Lord's wrath, or would he tell the truth and do the same? "And where is he now?"

"He's dead." The sentence was muttered simply, with no emotion or inflection.

"By whose hand?"

"My own." Harry did not even bother to explain why he'd killed Snape, just that he had.

Following that proclamation, silence descended over the room. The boy remained bowed in front of his lord, and Voldemort studied him with blood-red eyes. Moments passed, and neither said anything. Then, suddenly, Voldemort's wand had seemingly materialized in his hand, pointed at Harry. "_Crucio_," the Dark Lord hissed, and the jet of magic sped through the air and smashed into the boy faster than even he, with his newfound powers, could react. Deafening shrieks suddenly broke the quiet of the chamber as Harry rolled around erratically on the floor beneath Voldemort's throne. As the Dark Lord watched him writhe and allowed the pleasure from his prey's pain to wash over him, he could not help but grin. However, he stopped the torture just as abruptly as he'd started it, and Harry was left panting and in pain on the cold stone. Voldemort allowed him a moment to recover before speaking once more. "I trust that you will never again take action against one of my Death Eaters without first consulting me?"

"N—no," he gasped, still lying, prone on the floor.

"Good. In fact, I believe that we might be able to make the best of this situation anyway, but that is not why I called you here." Harry seemed surprised for a moment, but the Dark Lord ignored it. "I have mission for you, Harry, a solo mission." Voldemort glanced at the boy to make sure he had his complete attention; he did. "Tell me, does the name Rufus Scrimgeour mean anything to you?"

"The Auror?" Harry asked.

"Yes, yes. But not just an Auror, the _Head_ Auror." The Dark Lord paused for a moment, then said, "Harry, I want you to kill him." Though Harry's facial expression did not change even in the slightest, Voldemort could feel the shock radiating off of him in waves. "He has already organized the Aurors into a working organization, and now he has set his sights on rebuilding the Ministry. This cannot be allowed to happen." He eyed Harry for a split second. "You understand, of course?"

"Yes, master."

Voldemort allowed himself the slightest nod at the boy. "Now, Scrimgeour is currently vacationing with his young daughter in a family home on a small island in the Mediterranean. He is a private person, and several sources have informed me that he would not allow any Aurors to accompany him. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe that some of the Order did not agree with his not having protection, and may have followed him regardless. However, they should not pose any problem for you." The last sentence was spoken as more of a warning than a statement. "There will be several wards over the house; it is an ancestral home, one those protected by a line of wizards. Again, this should not prove any problem for you. You will arrive on the island by apparation, for our friend Scrimgeour has not taken the time to ward the whole island, and from there proceed to the home. You will nullify the Order guards, whom, as I am told, will most likely not be allowed inside, and then you will enter, find the target, and kill him. You will leave no one alive. Is that clear?"

"Yes, master."

But Harry appeared as though he would have liked to continue. Seeing this, Voldemort relented and said, "Harry, you are in the process of earning your place directly at my side. Soon you will be my right hand, my enforcer, my darkest knight. You will be my face to the public, punishing those who defy, and rewarding those who obey. You are proving your loyalty, and at the moment, I have no doubts of it. You may speak when you like."

Harry nodded. "Thank you, my lord. I merely have a question: when am I to complete this task."

Voldemort smirked widely. "Right now."

----

It was pitch black. The Mediterranean nightlife thrummed about him, but he ignored it and blocked it out. The air had a slight coolness to it, but it was still warmer than he was used to; and as he sat in the shade of a small tree, magically amplified vision tracing the paths of the Order's guards as they paced in front of Scrimgeour's house—though in all honesty it was more like a mansion—he was slightly uncomfortable.

The Order wasn't bothering with invisibility cloaks, not like they had with him during his fifth and subsequent years at Hogwarts, but there were two of them, neither of whom had he met, and they were large and imposing, appearing as though they could put up a good fight if pushed.

Unfortunately for them, a good fight would not be enough.

Wordlessly canceling the spell on his eyes, Harry pulled himself around and stepped away from the tree and straight into the shadows. His right hand was clenched tightly around his wand, and he imagined he could hear the high-pitched squeaking of his outfit whenever he moved. He was wearing a midnight-colored, one-piece leather suit. It wasn't his usual attire, but it was as black as the night and provided him with a good camouflage. Plus, it allowed for a freer range of movement than the more conventional set of robes.

Extending his magical awareness outwards—something he had had almost no experience doing before, but which now came as easily to him as breathing—he felt for the wards about the house.

It was hard to explain what it felt like to examine them, but they were something like a set of rubber bands tightly coiled around the mansion. Stretched taught, it would be child's play to ruin them if one could only find the breaking point, that one spot that would snap and send all of them flying harmlessly away.

Of course, that was the hard part.

A sound snapped him out of his reverie, and he reacted without thinking. He dropped into a crouch to avoid any spells that might have been shot towards him, and his free hand reached into his left boot, pulled loose a dagger he'd hidden there earlier, and flung it powerfully off into the darkness. A split second later there was a small thump and with it a high squeak, and then nothing.

He stayed in place, frozen for a moment longer, but when nothing untoward happened, he relaxed. Pulling himself up, he moved his wand to the ready, and then set off into the forest in the direction from which the sound had originated.

It only took him a moment to discern what had occurred, because there, pinned halfway up a tree by his dagger, was a squirrel. He scoffed silently; he was on edge—that much was obvious. However, it wasn't a total loss. It was apparent now that he needed to take care of the guards before even attempting to dismantle the wards. They were too much of a distraction. Thus, with a steady hand, he jerked his weapon from the tree, sending the dead squirrel falling to the ground, bent over and wiped the blood off on the grass, and finally replaced it within his boot. Standing, he twirled his wand loosely for a moment between his fingers, and then took to the shadows.

There were only two guards, luckily, but they seemed to be rather well trained. The paths they'd chosen to patrol intersected at such points around the mansion that neither was alone for more than five minutes at a time. It was required, then, that Harry act quickly, so that he could take one out and still be able to catch the other unawares. If he was caught or seen, he was sure one of the guards would set off an alarm, and then Scrimgeour would surely dis-apparate, leaving his mission a failure.

Harry let out a silent sigh, stretching his shoulders for a moment, and then tensed his muscles. He placed his wand in its holster at his side—any offensive magic this close to the mansion would be sure to set off the wards—and removed his duel daggers from either of his boots, arming himself with the weapons backwards, the blades pointed behind him. Quieting his mind, he allowed that familiar darkness to sweep over him, strengthening him where he was weak, and for a moment, his eyes glowed a deep red. Then he was off, stepping out of the shadows, appearing seemingly from nowhere in front of the first Order guard.

The man's eyes widened at the shock of seeing a seemingly bodiless Death Eater mask wielding two glinting knives, but he caught himself quickly, and was soon staring Harry down over his wand.

The Death Eater raised an eyebrow. As if that was going to stop him.

"_Stupe_—" the Order member began, but Harry was already in motion, vanishing into the darkness. Then, suddenly, he appeared directly in front of his opponent, and a quick sideways swipe with his right blade severed the startled man's wand into two pieces. At this, Harry felt even more surprise and even slight fear role off of the wizard as he began stumbling backward; but the Death Eater would not allow him to get away. This time, Harry slashed forward with his left blade, but his opponent brought his arms up to block, so instead of killing the man, his weapon slashed through the forearms, sending blood spurting into the air. The Order member opened his mouth wide, presumably to gasp loudly in pain, but the risk of exposure couldn't be taken, and Harry swung quickly around, his knife outstretched, and gashed it across the man's neck, once more sending blood spewing, and severing the man's throat and voice box, leaving him gurgling indistinctly as he fell to the ground, bleeding to death.

The darkness curled Harry's lips into a cool smirk as he felt again the thrill of murder, but he could not stand there and savor it; there was more killing to be done.

He dashed down the path the Order member had been traversing, as silent as the night itself, his blades held crossed in front of him, defensively. The night air wafted around him, caressing him, holding him to it, and he felt the power rushing through his veins; it needed a release.

And then everything went bad.

The other guard had gotten farther along his own path than Harry had counted on, and as he came around the corner, the astute Order member immediately spotted the jogging Death Eater. He reached for his wand, pulling it from his pocket and pointing it right at Harry.

"_Stupefy_!" he cried, and the jet of red light sped at Harry. The Death Eater's eyes narrowed, and as if using his weapons to carve the air, he swung his arms about in a circle, leaving behind a round, green spell of protection. The Stupefy spell slammed into it, and they both vanished.

Meanwhile, the wards around the house had been activated, and they themselves were now glowing a soft green hue, preventing anyone from entering the house. Harry cursed, realizing his plan was falling through and the consequences of failure, and threw all caution to the wind. He dropped his weapons straight to the ground, and moving his arm faster than a normal human should have been able to, pulled his wand from its holster and aimed it at the guard.

"_Cruentus_," he hissed a spell he'd never even heard before, his voice coming out almost as Parseltongue, and a huge wave of bright red light exploded from the tip of his wand and headed straight at the stunned guard. However, when it touched him, it did not send him sprawling to the ground, as he seemed to have expected, but merely slammed through him, vanishing off into the darkness. The man furrowed his brow for a moment, and looked down at his hands, but then his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the mossy floor, blood no longer present in his body.

Harry didn't even bother to pay attention to the falling body; he swung quickly around and pointed his wand at the wards. Pushing his mind away from the confines of his body, he smashed against the wards, shoving all of his magic against them, until they, with a loud pop, snapped and fizzled out. Quickly, he grabbed his blades, re-holstered them, then ran towards the large, oak front doors and with a swish of his wand, sent them smashing inwards. He'd studied the schematics of the house—thanks to a well-placed Ministry spy—while he'd been preparing to leave, and he was quite certain as to where Scrimgeour would have run to as soon as the wards started going off.

The wardless room—the study.

Though its lack of protection spells hardly mattered after they'd been torn down, it would have been the only place the man and his daughter could use to escape, for the floo network did not extend this far out.

He navigated his way to the study purely on instinct, the darkness whispering in his ear, telling him where to turn and where to stop; only several moments had passed before he was blasting the barricaded study doors off their hinges with a violent spell. Rushing into the room, he stopped in the doorway, and his eyes worked seemingly by themselves, searching for the Auror. He was nowhere in sight, but Harry was no fool, and his senses were stronger than most; there was nowhere else the Auror could have gone, and he hadn't taken up enough time getting to the room for Scrimgeour to have easily gotten elsewhere.

"_Reducto_!" a voice hollered, and Harry's body was already moving, jumping sideways, before the man had finished the incantation. Unfortunately, he wasn't quite quick enough, and the edge of the spell caught him on the right shoulder, blasting a thick gash into his arm. Harry landed behind a bookcase, protected for the moment, and laid his opposite hand over the bloody wound. He closed his eyes, and muttered a few choice words in Latin, causing his palm to glow. He was not the most adept at healing magic, and the darkness certainly was not the best in that area, but the spell stopped the bleeding and removed the pain, and that was enough for the moment.

Unwittingly, Harry's heart began to race; that had been too close. He should have been able to sense Scrimgeour long before he'd had the chance to fire off a spell, but he hadn't. The Auror was good; it didn't seem that this fight would be as simple as the one with the guards. It was obvious the man hadn't become the Head Auror by accident. But he certainly wouldn't win if he didn't concentrate, so he relaxed himself, calming his heart.

Scrimgeour was moving around several meters behind him; he could barely discern the sound, but it was there. His hand clenched about his wand, and he shot up, twisting in midair and firing off a spell.

"_Crucio_!" he bellowed, and the spell sped through the distance between the two wizards. But Scrimgeour was ready, and he smacked the curse away almost carelessly, and that was when Harry noticed that he was standing in front of something, almost protectively. Then the eyes behind his mask widened.

_That's right_, he thought, _Scrimgeour's daughter is here with him_!

Unfortunately, the distraction of this discovery allowed the seasoned Auror enough time to retaliate with another _Reducto_ curse, and Harry had to duck once more behind the bookshelf to avoid being decapitated. But the curse still shot over him and smashed into a row of desks that exploded outwards, and the Death Eater barely had enough time to mutter a _Protego_ charm to keep himself from being impaled by shards of flying wood.

_This isn't going to work. I can't beat him like this; he's too good._

He sighed deeply. Voldemort had given him power, and now was the chance to put it to the ultimate test. Would it be able to stop the Auror? Somehow, Harry knew that more than wanting Scrimgeour dead, the Dark Lord had wanted to see if Harry could overcome his adversary. He would use his master's gift, and show Voldemort that he was, in fact, strong enough to be the wizard's dark knight.

Once more, he relaxed his body completely, closing his eyes and exhaling all of the tension out of his muscles. He cleared his mind, shoving away any stray thoughts, and allowed the darkness to again easily fill him, accepting it eagerly. It soaked into his body, heeding his call, and spread throughout his every pore, empowering him; and when he felt ready, he opened his eyes, and they glowed a brilliant ruby.

"Cecila," he heard Scrimgeour whisper, and if he hadn't been so steeped in the darkness at that moment, he would have realized that it should have been physically impossible to hear the Auror. "Run away; get out of here." Then followed the soft patter of small feet running towards the door. The girl was trying to escape, but that was no matter; he would have to deal with her later. He pointed his wand to the ground and whispered a quiet spell. Immediately, a glowing magical barrier appeared within the opened doorway, and Harry heard the girl's feet quickly avert to a corner protected by even more bookcases.

Now, he had business to attend to . . .

He suddenly shot up, twisting inhumanely fast towards Scrimgeour. "_Cruentus_!" he cried, and this time his voice did come out in Parseltongue. The spell exploded from his wand as it had done before, but the Auror was already summoning a powerful shielding charm; it enveloped him in a tight ball, and when the curse struck the shield, it was not able to break through. Harry, seeing this, quickly began formulating another plan, and he smirked evilly as he worked it out.

Suddenly, he switched positions and pointed his wand toward the bookshelves where the Auror's daughter had run off. "_Aduro_!" he hissed, and from the tip of his wand a lance of flame struck out, bursting the dry wood of the area into a mass of fire. When Scrimgeour, reacting with skills honed in combat, pushed his wand through the barrier, quickly summoning a jet of water to put out the conflagration, Harry fired off another curse at his shield, and this time, with the man distracted, he was able to overpower it; and the Auror, noticing this, quickly dove for cover behind a bookcase of his own.

"Running away, Rufus," he taunted, his voice coming out echoing and almost demonic, even while muffled through his mask. "Not very manly of you."

"And attacking a defenseless little girl is?" the Auror shot back angrily. Harry raised an eyebrow at the clutter that the man hid behind.

"I suppose not, but you must be mistaken; I am no man." He took a step forward and in Parseltongue hissed, "_I am a nightmare_." Then, with a quick swish of his wrist, the protective area around Scrimgeour exploded. However, the Auror was quick, and he hopped out of the still flying debris, even as dozen of tiny cuts and scrapes appeared on his body, and bellowed out his own curse.

"_Stupefy_!" The brilliant red spell shot towards Harry, and as they ever seemed to be doing, his muscles reacted without consulting him first. His knees bent and then propelled him backwards, arms extending behind him to push off the top of the bookcase that had previously been protecting him, until he completed a backwards summersault and landed on his feet behind the shelves. His wand was in motion even as he settled down to the ground, and he growled a dark protection spell just before the shelf in front of him exploded into thousands of pieces.

As the debris began to settle, neither combatant moved.

They stared at each, both in ready dueling stances, deep red eyes glaring into bright yellow, holding the other's gaze.

"You won't make it out of here, Death Eater," Scrimgeour growled.

"You're wrong," Harry replied, his lips sliding easily into a familiar smirk. "This was over before it even began. You made a mistake."

The Auror blinked, and Harry moved.

Shooting forward towards his opponent at speeds he should not have been able to reach, Harry sent another dark curse straight at the man. Again, Scrimgeour summoned the infernal shield, and the spell bounced harmlessly away. However, Harry did not stop, and Scrimgeour eyed him with surprise as he barreled towards the man, hopping over desks and chairs to meet him. The Auror fired off several more hexes of his own, but Harry deflected them with a practiced ease, and then, when he was within range, flipped forward over a final desk, tossed his wand to the side, and landed in a crouch, hand digging into his boot, within Scrimgeour's shield.

The Auror's eyes widened. "How did you—" But the man was silenced when Harry abruptly stood up, making them face to face, and drove one of his curved daggers straight into Scrimgeour's stomach.

Harry smirked, "You shouldn't have put out the fire like that." Then he yanked his weapon away, and Scrimgeour fell to the floor, dead.

Only taking a moment to wipe off the blade, Harry slid it easily back into his boot, and walked over to pick up his wand. He held it in his hand for a moment, pausing, and then, decidedly, set off towards the corner where he had heard the Auror's daughter heading, Voldemort's voice ringing in his head.

"_You will leave no one alive. Is that clear?"_

He found her huddling and crying behind several stacks of books and magazines, her hands closed protectively around her head. Watching her for a moment, he finally demanded, "Look at me!"

She complied. Her eyes were bright red and soaked, and she quickly sniffed and wiped them off with her arm, staring up at him in utter terror.

Terror.

He loved it.

He grinned evilly and pointed his wand at her.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

----

"He is dead?" Dumbledore's voice was soft and sounded as though he were holding back tears. The head floating in his fireplace, dancing within the emerald flames, grimaced for a moment before responding.

"Yes."

"How?"

The person on the other side of the floo looked disgusted for a moment. "His wand was impaled through his eye . . . professor," the person said, "Potter _did_ do it; no one else could have."

Dumbledore merely shook his head sadly and said, "That remains to be proven."

"Professor!" his companion protested, but he glared at them, and they wisely chose to stay silent.

"We will discuss Severus's death at another time." At this, his companion gave him a slightly annoyed look, and he responded with, "I promise you that we _will_ discuss it."

"Good, because I have some words about Snape."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, though his face still appeared drawn and filled with pain. "_Professor_ Snape."

His companion snorted. "He hasn't been _my_ professor in many years."

Here, the headmaster smiled gently. "You still call me professer."

There was no comeback, and Dumbledore's genial smile merely grew. Then, he turned serious.

"For now, I want to hear about Harry."

The fire crackled for a moment as the person within it reflected, and silence engulfed the two. It wasn't necessarily uneasy in nature, but rather simply foreboding.

"What about him?" the person asked.

"I haven't heard from him since he left; how has he been adjusting?"

There was another pause before a rather sober reply was given. "Perhaps _too_ well."

"What do you mean?"

"He's . . . changing, Albus; everyone can see it. Even the most blind of Death Eaters have begun to respect him."

"Then he's doing his job."

The figure in the fire shook its head.

"You're not understanding. He's _becoming_ a Death Eater—and not in the sense that you two agreed upon. He's even growing on Voldemort. There are rumors that the Dark Lord has handpicked him to be his right hand." The figure smirked for a moment. "Malfoy's all up in arms about that."

Dumbledore eyed his companion for a moment longer, then said, "I wouldn't worry. Harry can take of himself."

The person snorted. "Yea, I know. Just look at Snape."

The headmaster looked reprimanding as he said, "Again, there is no evidence for that."

"Evidence or not, he did it. There was no one else, professor."

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. "Fine," he said. "I trust Harry as I trusted both you and Severus: not to give in to the temptation, and to fight for the light within the house of the dark, but if you are so concerned, then I suppose I am obligated to look into the situation. Arrange a date with him for the both of you to come and see me, and I will check on his status there."

The figure's brow furrowed. "Arrange a date? But that would require me to—"

"—Reveal yourself to him, yes," Dumbledore confirmed, and then he smiled at the slightly annoyed look on his companion's face. "Cheer up, worse things have happened."

"Yea, yea," the person muttered, obviously miffed.

"Now, I believe it is time for me to be getting off to bed, and you should be doing so as well. Good night."

The figure rolled its eyes. "Good night, professor."

Dumbledore shut off the fire, stood up, stretched, and set of for bed, a slightly disturbed look on his face. And somewhere in the hills of France, Blaise Zabini relaxed away from her fire and into her parents' expensive and comfortable leather sofa, an aggravated expression adorning her normally pretty features.


End file.
